


Between the Wild and Delicate

by ficklescribbler



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 17th Century, Aramis Whump, Athos Whump, Brotherhood, Captain Athos, Captivity, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Gen Work, Historical, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt/Comfort, Musketeers as Royal Bodyguards, Series 3 AU, Soul-searching Aramis, Thirty Years War, War, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-22 10:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 71,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9604484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficklescribbler/pseuds/ficklescribbler
Summary: Series 3 AU. September 1636. The King's Musketeers are on their way across France to continue the fight on the northern front, but an ambush in the night sets into motion events that can change the fate of the war. Athos carries the heavy mantle of captaincy, Aramis's soul is no less restless than before, and war touches the Inseparables' brotherhood in more profound ways than they'd imagine.





	1. Of Messages and Messengers

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter has been in my fanfic folder for such a long time, I finally decided that polishing and posting it might provide some incentive to get the whole story out. A Series 3 alternative, it satiates my need to see the Musketeers in a universe without Grimaud, Feron or Sylvie.
> 
> We begin in September 1636, so the trio have been going from front to front for about fifteen months. Aramis did refuse joining the others and remained at the monastery.
> 
> I am not a native speaker of English and the story is not beta-read, so kindly excuse the mistakes.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Of Messages and Messengers**

 

~*~

If he were honest with himself, the only reason young infantryman Jean Dupond made such haste to reach the captain's tent was to get out of the pouring rain – not the urgency of the message he was carrying. Truthfully, he had no idea whether the message, tucked safely inside his leather jacket to protect from the rain, was an urgent one or not; the seal on it was not an official one he recognized, but then, the messenger himself hadn't seemed overly concerned with haste. Even as Dupond sprinted over the mud towards the edge of the camp, the messenger had settled to enjoy a hard-earned meal in the dryness of one of the tents.

Chestnut hair soaked and plastered to his face, Dupond dashed into the captain's tent in his haste to get out of the torrent, spluttering rainwater from his lips as he skidded to a halt inside, at once remembering whose tent he'd barged in. But he needn't worry about a reprimand. The captain was leaning forward on both arms against a narrow wooden table, scrutinizing a well-worn map in the flickering candlelight. He did not look up or give any indication that he'd heard Dupond's entrance, and Dupond considered himself lucky for that. He might have been a new recruit, but even he knew he wasn't supposed to run into a superior's tent like this. It was a constant struggle for the young soldier: tents did not have doors to knock. Most days, he resolved to loudly clearing his throat before entering; sometimes he called out, but he did not prefer that one, as it made him feel like he was attempting to begin a conversation with the captain –something he'd rather avoid, let alone initiate. Now, he was already inside, but still found himself in the uncomfortable position of having to call out for attention.

He cleared his throat.

"What is it?" the captain growled, his voice low and impatient, and his tone as curt as Dupond had ever heard. He swallowed, unable to abate the nervousness he felt every time he needed to address the captain. Deciding to quickly get on with it, he let the flap of the tent fall, the heavy canvas immediately muffling the wash of the rain, and approached the table.

"This came for you, Captain," he informed, removing the envelope from his chest and holding it out. The captain gave the letter a cursory glance, but when he made no move to reach for it, Dupond slowly left it onto the table, next to the map. Keeping his eyes on the captain while retreating his hand, he was thinking of that time a couple of weeks ago, when he'd offered leftovers to a stray dog at the outskirts of the encampment. He'd half a mind that he could very well lose his hand for his good intent.

He jumped when thunder cracked like a whip upon the tent's cover. The captain's finger was calmly tracing an arching route over the parchment.

Feeling just a little bit foolish, Dupond swallowed.

It had been just over a week since he had been appointed –that is, wordlessly chosen– as "a sort of assistant", he liked to think of it, to the captain, after his aide had deserted when sent to a nearby village to look for supplies. Dupond himself had arrived with a group of four a month before that, when the troops they were supposed to join were massacred by the Spanish before they had even reached the encampment. The sergeant who had recruited them, now bereft of a company himself, had sent them on to join the nearest unit, which happened to be the King's Musketeers, who were marching north to serve under the command of the revered General Guillaume de Toussaine.

Prior to his arrival at the camp, Dupond had heard enough about the king's famous musketeers – Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan – to be curious about them, but until that terrible attack they'd suffered a few days ago, all he'd observed about the men –the three of them that were in the camp- had been their camaraderie. Even to a stranger's eyes the bond between Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan was visible. The men seemed to read each other's minds, communicate without words, and predict each other's feelings – frankly, it was a bit uncanny, but Dupond kept that thought to himself.

Now he stood waiting to see if Athos needed anything from him, having already learned better than to ask, but the captain might as well have turned into a statue. Leaning over the rough wood, his jaw was tight-set, unruly hair curtaining his eyes. The flicker of the candle flame cast a sickly hue over his face, filling sinister shadows into the normally shallow crevices, making him appear gaunt and older than his years. Not for the first time, Dupond felt grateful that he was not in the captain's boots. Despite the hair obscuring it, he knew that the bruised abrasion at the side of his brow still remained, as did the gash on his leg, both recently acquired in the fight. He'd never once seen Athos smile –not that smiles came with abandon to the military camp- but his mood had taken a turn for the worst since a small group of Spanish soldiers had managed to sneak into the camp in the middle of the night, even as the Musketeers were deep within French territory. They'd slaughtered three men and wounded four by the time the alarm had been raised; they had then set ablaze one edge of the camp, which had led to another man's severe injury and the loss of precious supplies. Despite the fact that the Musketeers had regained control came sunrise, the damage was extensive. Now, three days later, the most elite of the King's regiments was still reeling, and at the helm, feeling the pressure more so than everyone, was Athos.

Dupond had just decided to silently retreat and put an end to this yet another awkward moment in the command tent when the man suddenly spoke.

"Where is the messenger?" Green eyes flickered towards the envelope before rising to Dupond's face. Dupond blinked.

"Sir?"

"The messenger, Dupond. Where is he?"

"I – suppose he's having a bite of something, sir. Resting."

"Resting," Athos repeated, a mute chuckle rattling his shoulders. A chill crept into Dupond's chest upon hearing the hopelessness lacing that voice, but before he could think of what to say, Athos continued, pushing himself away from the table. "And how old is he? A boy?"

Dupond started to feel like he was missing something that must have been obvious. His heart-rate was beginning to pick up.

Athos's eyes were bright as he pointed a finger to the table where the envelope lay.

"You do not take letters from the messenger," he said, his voice firm, but without much heat. "You bring the messenger directly to me. He should not have released his courier to you or anyone else; in war, the fewer hands a message changes, the better. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Dupond replied, forcing himself to not lower his eyes.

"Next time a messenger arrives, you bring him to me, not his message."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Taking his chance, Dupond swiftly turned on his heel and made for the flap. He was going to give that messenger boy a piece of his mind –if he could get to him without slipping in this blasted mud or drowning in this rain! – he cursed under his breath and looked up sharply as he saw someone approaching from the opposite direction. It was d'Artagnan, the brim of his hat half-concealing his face, but Dupond wouldn't confuse him with anyone else, even if it was the first time he was seeing the other man wearing a hat. The Musketeer frowned as he walked past Dupond and spoke loudly to make his voice heard over the rain.

"How's the captain?"

Dupond opened his mouth to reply, but found that had no idea what to say. _Grumpy? Working? As usual?_ Luckily, d'Artagnan did not stop to wait for his answer; instead, he flashed a knowing smile and continued on his way to Athos's tent. Dupond did not linger to watch. He had some choice words for the messenger – and some wise advice too, courtesy of Captain Athos. He had a feeling the boy could use it.

* * *

_They had come by way of the river._

_Rimbaud, throat slit, bled to death before he could make a sound. Thevenot, found with a cloth over his head, strangled. Pinchon, run through with a sword, straight through the heart._

_They had died quickly, without suffering much._ _But the knowledge brought no comfort to him._

_He should have posted guards on the riverside. Instead, g_ _uilt now sat in his stomach like rocks along the river bank, embedded in grating anger. What was the point of it?_ _T_ _here had been no reason to expect an attack; let alone to expect Spaniards swimming up the river under cover of dark, weapons held high above their heads, quite as night creatures, to infiltrate their camp. A mere group of nine, against the entire regiment of the king's musketeers._ What _was the point? They had to have known that none would survive the night._

_They had done significant damage, but, simply put, it was not serious enough to be worth the lives of nine men._

_Frustration simmered in his veins, sending hot, violent pulses through his head. He should have posted guards on the riverside. A_ _costly oversight on his part, as captain of the regiment, and the lives of three good men were now smeared grey against the walls of his conscience._

_He could only pray that the delay in reaching Toussaine's camp would not have serious consequences._

* * *

When d'Artagnan entered the command tent, it was to find Athos standing before the table, one hand on his hip as the other pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes were closed.

"What, Dupond?" he asked quietly.

"Sorry, not him."

Athos cracked open one eye upon hearing the Gascon's voice, the other reluctantly following suit as his hand fell from his forehead. "d'Artagnan."

"Captain." He stood in a semi-formal manner of attention, which would seem rather awkward had it been from any other soldier who did not share the level of brotherhood the two enjoyed. As it was, in the past year, d'Artagnan had easily developed a manner in Athos's presence which befitted both their respective ranks and their friendship. Athos would not have recognized the subtle shift in his own demeanour in turn, but an undetectable note would lace his voice, an additional layer slipping beneath his open gaze, in subconscious response to his friends' deference.

How the rank of captain fitted him like a tailor-made coat was oblivious, perhaps, only to himself.

"What news of supplies?" he inquired, his attentive gaze taking in d'Artagnan's appearance and relieving him of any suspicion of hurt or trouble during the brief mission. The Gascon, along with three other comrades, had been tasked with visiting nearby villages in the hopes of replenishing the regiment's food supplies.

"We secured about half of what we need," d'Artagnan reported succinctly. "The men are unloading the cargo as we speak; Aubin is overseeing it." He removed a piece of paper from his pocket as he spoke, holding it out. Athos's eyes quickly skimmed over the list Aubin, the musketeer in charge of the regiment's supplies, had given to d'Artagnan prior to the Gascon's departure two days ago.

"This is not enough to cover our loss," he declared, his voice completely toneless.

"No, but this is all the villagers can spare. Both Poiseul and Bonnecourt were hit by the Spanish recently, presumably by the same group we fought. People barely have enough grain to survive."

"Yet we have to reach General Toussaine's camp in two weeks, and if we can't get our supplies here, we certainly won't be able to do so in Lorraine."

"There is nothing to be found, Athos," d'Artagnan put, shaking his head. "There are only women and children in the villages, and old people. They're already starving without us squeezing them dry."

Athos gave him a pointed look. "Unless you suggest we settle here and grow our own grain, I don't see an alternative." He coughed slightly before allowing a small sigh to escape from his lips. "What of the sutlers?"

"I sent Petit and Simon with them to Choiseul and told them to meet us there in four days' time. There's much better chance of finding grain there than here."

"Then let us hope that is the case," Athos agreed, nodding his approval. "With luck, Porthos will be able to recover the missing wagon as well. If not.. we will have some difficult days ahead."

"Not worse than what we've already been through," d'Artagnan returned. Athos could not help a nebulous quirk fleeting across his lips; the Gascon's resignation to the possibility of 'hardship', regardless of its precise definition, was a comfort in itself. "Is there any news from Porthos?" d'Artagnan inquired.

"None yet."

"They're supposed to return tomorrow, yes?"

Athos gave him a nod. Porthos and a small group musketeers in his command had been given four days to backtrack the route that would, had it not been presumably diverted, seized or destroyed by the Spanish prior to the ambush, bring an expected supply wagon to the encampment. Porthos and his men were tasked with neutralizing any remaining Spanish threat in the area in the vicinity of the camp and to try to find traces of the lost wagon. The recovery of the wagon would at least mean they could postpone the need for rationing a while longer; tempers already flayed and the mood as bleak as the weather among the musketeers since the attack, Athos would much prefer not having to add to their misery.

His aimless gaze fell on the letter on the table, lying where Dupond had left it, untouched. Looking at it properly for the first time, he noticed the simple, unofficial seal; picking it up with a frown, he turned it over and saw his name - merely Athos - in a large, simple cursive. _A personal letter? From whom?_ He broke the seal and looked to the signature.

The letter was from Treville.

As Athos's eyes scanned the brief message and reached the last line, he blinked, and went back to the beginning for a re-read. And then, slowly, unexpectedly, a small smile smoothed away the creases around his eyes.

d'Artagnan's own lips curled at the sight of that minor miracle. "What?"

With a sparkle in his eye, Athos handed out the letter for him to read, and it took ten seconds for d'Artagnan to scan the contents and raise disbelieving eyes to his friend. "Is this possible?"

"It is from Treville."

"Yes, but..." Leaving the letter back onto the table, d'Artagnan's hands slowly rose to rest on his hips.

"You're not glad?"

"What - of course I am glad." d'Artagnan blinked again, and Athos's frown deepened.

"d'Artagnan, this is great news. This is _excellent_ news."

"It is." d'Artagnan nodded, readily agreeing with Athos's assertion, and then, he began to grin. "It _is_ excellent news. Athos, this is wonderful!"

Ah, there was that old saying about the sou finally dropping.. Funny that it had never been the normally sharp, open-book Gascon to make Athos think of it before. He chuckled, this time with genuine mirth, and the two friends instinctively moved towards each other, arms raising to clasp the other's shoulders in a rare, precious moment of shared joy.

And then, the nervous throat-cleaning of Jean Dupond was heard from the entrance. Athos rolled his eyes as he let go of d'Artagnan.

"What, Dupond?" The lad stood with one foot inside the tent, looking like a used mop dripping water around where he stood.

"Sir, I brought the messenger."

"What messenger?"

"Err.. The one that brought the message, sir."

"What did you bring him for? You already brought his letter to me."

Dupond's wet face had begun to contort into interesting shapes. He opened his mouth as if to reply, comically resembling a fish out of water for a second, blinked, and closed it again. Athos let out a long-suffering sigh.

"For God's sake, Dupond, don't stand there in the rain - take your messenger and go sit somewhere dry. Did you tell him what I said?"

"I - yes, sir, I did. The fewer hands a letter changes, the better. I told him."

"Good. Now get out of my sight. And find yourself a hat."

"Yes, sir."

As the sort-of-assistant disappeared once again, Athos looked up to find d'Artagnan grinning.

"Where is the poor lad going to find a hat here?"

"Where did you find one?" Athos returned, cocking his head at him even as he moved towards the wooden chest in one corner of the tent, opening it and retrieving a bottle.

d'Artagnan looked at the damp hat in his hand as if just remembering the latest addition to his uniform. "This? I stole it."

"You did not."

But d'Artagnan only grinned, white teeth flashing as he stepped closer and patted his friend's shoulder. "You may have just encouraged one of your men into theft, Captain. Nice. Not long now until you have a mutiny in your hands."

"For which I'll have you to thank," Athos glared.

"What will you do? Court martial me?"

And he left the flap swishing in his wake, still grinning as he left.

Athos shook his head as he removed the cork from the bottle and reached for a cup. For the hundredth time since becoming captain, he found himself thinking the same thing: it wasn't going to be this war, but Porthos and d'Artagnan who'd be the undoing of him.

Now, he could add Dupond to that list as well.


	2. Mysterious Ways

* * *

**Mysterious Ways**

~*~

Stealth was everything.

Porthos gave a low whistle to the men spread around him, each carefully sheltering himself behind a tree, pistols at the ready. Brown hats and leather boots blended effortlessly with the oaks and autumn leaves carpeting the terrain, rivulets of rainwater streaming down the gentle slope ahead before merging with the narrow, natural ark at the side of the forest path. Further ahead, on the other side of the road, lay the abandoned ruin of a small, stone structure, its walls taken over and almost devoured by thick branches of climbing vines. What the building might once have been –for it was entirely too small to ever have been a house- Porthos had no idea, nor as to why anyone would decide on so inconvenient a place to erect one, but it did not matter. What mattered was the thin, swirling stream of smoke that was rising from the partially collapsed roof, beckoning the Musketeers to come close and investigate.

Porthos smirked. The idiots inside would have no idea what hit them.

The rain softly pattering on the leaves above their heads, Porthos glanced over to his comrades and signaled them to spread out, himself moving out from behind a chiseled old tree and carefully picking his way down towards the road. There were no windows or openings seen on the building's crumbling walls, so he moved with speed rather than trying to disguise himself. He could see no guards outside, but steering himself a few feet to the right, he made out the bowed head of a black horse peering around a corner. He looked up at the sound of a low, sharp whistle. Duval, one of the four Musketeers accompanying him on this mission, rose a gauntleted hand to his throat and made a cutting gesture, shaking his head – _no guards outside-,_ then pointed towards the barely visible horse and raised three fingers. Porthos gave a sharp nod. This was going to be _too_ easy.

Catching the eyes of each men one by one, he raised up a finger and twirled his wrist in a circular motion. They were going to surround the building and take on these Spaniards –for they _were_ Spaniards, after all, the Musketeers had not been following their track for more than a day for nothing. Giving the men a minute to take up their positions, Porthos ran quickly down the slope and crossed the path in two strides, moving from one tree to the next until he moved around the building and could see the entrance. There was no door. A low opening that might once have been one was now partially blocked from the inside, leaving a gap barely wide enough for a man to pass through.

Certainly not wide enough for a man of Porthos's bulk.

He clacked his tongue. It would have been a choice between calling the hiding Spaniards out to surrender themselves, and barging in to simply pick them up from where they had, essentially, trapped themselves. Porthos glanced around the surrounding forest. He had no doubt that they could easily take out the small group hiding inside, the chances of any of them slipping past the Musketeers and escape through the forest slim at best. On the other hand, barging in unannounced would entail the unnecessary risk of getting the first one in shot. Having made up his mind, Porthos crept out of his hiding place and raced towards the building. Wet, rotting foliage beneath his feet absorbed his heavy footsteps, and seconds later, his back was pressed against the rough masonry, pistol already primed and ready. Taking a breath, he nodded at Boutin, who had mirrored him on the other side of the door, and looked across to confirm that Vidal and Berger had taken up positions to cover the way out.

It was time.

"Oi, you Spanish rats! You're surrounded! Surrender, and we might let you live!"

His voice carried loud and wide in the peace of the forest, and immediately they heard movement inside: a muffled curse, feet shuffling on the ground, and harsh murmurs in Spanish. Across from Porthos, Boutin was grinning like a hound bent upon its prey. Porthos's own eyes were glinting.

Someone shouted out in Spanish, just beyond the door, perhaps merely behind the wall that Porthos rested against, but the Musketeers merely shrugged. None of them understood what had been said.

"I'm not a patient man," Porthos called out, belligerent. "You 'ave thirty seconds to drop your weapons and come out! And if you're not gettin' what I'm sayin'," he added as an afterthought, "that ain't my problem!"

"Perhaps not!" answered an accented voice from the inside, coming from too close to Porthos's ear for comfort, "Then again, we have a hostage! Will you let _him_ live _?_ "

Porthos and Boutin stiffened, each taking a step back and aiming their pistols at the building's entrance. "Come out slowly," Porthos called, "and let's settle this like gentlemen." He saw movement just beyond the opening and shifted until he was behind the nearby tree, signaling Boutin to take cover as well. More than a year and several bloody battles into this war, he knew better than to underestimate the Spanish, especially if these men were of the same cloth with the group that had infiltrated the Musketeers' camp mere days ago.

The presence of a hostage further complicated things. And Porthos hated complications.

His invitation for gentlemanly conduct was answered with an angry pistol shot. The ball passed through the trees, flying directly between where Berger and Vidal were hidden across the entrance, and disappeared into the woods. Boutin let out an exasperated huff.

"It's a bluff," he muttered, holding Porthos's gaze. "We've been tracking them for two days in the forest, and we've not seen a single soul. What are the changes they came across someone to take hostage?"

"It might 'ave happened before we picked up the trail," Porthos replied with a shake of his head. "We can't take the chance." He raised his voice. "Alright," he called to the invisible Spaniard, "why don't you and your 'ostage come out then? We don't 'ave all day!"

Low, muffled murmurs from the ruined building -and Porthos wondered if he heard more than two voices- and seconds later, there was movement in the darkness beyond the entrance. A lean figure slowly emerged, squeezing through the gap and stepping out into the small clearing, naked hands raised up in supplication. A simple leather jerkin with a suspiciously absent belt showed that he was unarmed, and, followed by the second man coming out with the barrel of an arquebus pressed against the first one's neck, none other than the hostage in question. With a practiced look, Porthos took in the slightly disheveled appearance of the unfortunate - _stupid, stupid!-_ man, the tear on the upper sleeve of one arm, the unruly hair, fashionably cut beard, and the specks of dirt smeared on one side of the face.

His eyes widened. And he _groaned._

Complications were one thing. Unexpected complications of colossal magnitude was quite another.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Boutin flinch slightly, recognition clear in his body language, but thankfully, the other Musketeer had enough experience in situations like this to know to keep his silence. Porthos turned his attention to the Spaniard.

"Alrigh'," he said, nodding towards the man, "you got yourself a 'ostage. Poor bastard. So? Look around, you're surrounded. Where will you go?"

" _Mosqueteros del rey_ ," the Spaniard spat, light brown eyes taking in Porthos and Boutin's uniforms. He was a tall man, perhaps even taller than Porthos, but had less than half of his bulk. His long, dark hair was tied back, and grey stood out in the strands framing a tanned, square face. "It matters not where I will go," he said calmly, pressing the barrel even more firmly against his hostage's neck, "Will you let this man die; that is the more important question."

As he spoke, two more men came cautiously out of the building, pistols and swords drawn and ready, faces alert and full of suspicion. Porthos caught still further movement inside, just behind the two Spaniards, but no one else appeared. Stifling a sudden and completely unreasonable urge to laugh, Porthos made himself frown in order to conquer the rather impertinent spike of emotion.

"I might just take my chances," he said with a shrug, lowering his pistol and relaxing his stance. The tall Spaniard frowned, eyes narrowing, and the wrist holding the arquebus on the hostage's neck just slightly slackened.

Then, everything happened at once.

Jumping out from inside the building, Duval bodily took down one of the two men standing outside the entrance. Out of the woods, Vidal and Berger fired their pistols -aiming not to kill but to wound- one of them grazing the second man by the door and spurring him into action. He fired a shot in the general direction of the nearer Boutin, who threw himself on the ground before returning the shot, which was equally unsuccessful. Not bothering with the pistol, Porthos threw himself forward with a mighty bellow, startling the wounded Spaniard so badly the man could barely raise his sword before he was slammed back against the wall and pinned down through the thigh by Porthos' _main gauche._

Neither did the unarmed hostage stand idle. The moment Duval jumped the first Spaniard, he slammed an elbow into his captor's face, spun on his heel and wrenched the arquebus free from the Spaniard's hands, and using it like a club, brought down a mighty blow on the man's temple. The man went down like a rock.

It was all over in less than a minute. And for a moment, the only thing that broke the peaceful sound of the rain was the agonized howls of the last conscious Spaniard with the skewered leg.

"Bloody hell."

"Everyone alrigh'?"

"Excluding these," -a jerk of the chin towards the Spanish- "yes."

It was Duval who first righted himself, as Berger and Vidal came out from the woods. Porthos bent down to draw his _main gauche_ from the howling man's leg, only to send him into further frenzy; nonchalantly wiping the blade on his breeches, Porthos pulled out a large kerchief and threw it down on the man's lap. He left his friends to strip the Spaniards of their weapons and round them up, and walked towards the other man who had successfully freed himself from the "hostage situation." The man stood tense, staring at the unmoving form of his captor, the arquebus still in one hand, held upside down, the other hand resting on his hip.

He looked up upon hearing Porthos's footsteps. And swallowed.

Porthos stopped before him.

Two men, staring at each other under the rain.

"Are you hurt?" Porthos asked gruffly. The man shook his head.

"Nothing serious."

"Hmm."

More silence.

"I don' suppose you were tryin' to pose like one of 'em an' learn somethin' useful."

"Well.." The man rubbed the back of his neck. "Initially that was my plan.. Though I will admit, it has gone a bit astray."

"'A bit astray', huh?" Porthos's eyes narrowed as he stared at the man, thoroughly unimpressed. "You call getting captured by the Spanish 'goin' astray'?"

"I, uh.. All's well that ends well?"

"Nah. That's takin' it too far."

Porthos was trying. God knew he was trying, but looking into the man's eyes, he quickly lost the battle against the grin that was tugging at his lips with the insistence of an impatient child. The man's eyebrows rose in mild disbelief as that grin turned into a choked roar of laughter and the stranger was pulled into a rough, fierce hug against that mountain of a chest - for the stranger was no stranger at all and would never be one to Porthos no matter in how long they had not seen each other.

They were _brothers_ , in all but blood.

_Aramis._

It was Aramis-the-bloody-idiot-who-had-left-them-to-become-a-monk.

"I should punch you unconscious and drag your arse to the Captain instead of _this_ ," Porthos mumbled, barely aware of what he was saying as he pulled back, just enough so he could see the large, _relieved, stupid_ smile on his friend's face. The _bloody idiot_. He just couldn't _believe_ it! Of all the people to be taken hostage by the Spanish, and in the middle of France..

It was _Aramis_!

_How?_

_Why?_

_.. hostage?!_

As questions began to fidget in line and elation evaporated without loitering, Porthos's grin transformed into a frown. The fingers on Aramis's shoulder contracted, squeezing, out of his own accord, perhaps a bit harder than necessary. "Aramis, what the _heck_ are you doin' here?"

Aramis, too, frowned. "Trust me, Porthos, I did not plan on meeting you like this." A slight hint of exasperation in his voice, he nodded towards the general direction of the rest of the men, Spaniard and Musketeer alike. "But you weren't expecting me in the camp?"

"Expecting you?" Porthos frowned even deeper. "Why the hell would we expect you?"

"Because Tréville sent word," Aramis replied, his own confusion evident. "The messenger should have reached you days ago.. unless something happened to him on the road."

"I know nothin' about a messenger," Porthos returned, shaking his head. "What is this, then? Are you coming back to the regiment?" He would have stopped there, but then, he couldn't. "I don' suppose Tréville would send a messenger ahead of you if _you_ had turned messenger. So.. what? Were you just comin' to pay us a visit?"

Even if he'd tried, Porthos couldn't have kept the bite from creeping into this voice, growing sharper and more bitter at each word that came tumbling out of his mouth, because as the shock of the encounter ebbed, all the anger and resentment he harbored towards Aramis, all the hard feelings he had barely put to rest, came rushing back to him, flooding into his chest and crashing upon him in big, merciless waves.

Because how _dared_ he? How dared he walk out of Porthos's life at the drop of a hat, refuse to return when asked, and then reappear _like this?_

Oh, Aramis had always had a lot of nerve. But _this_ was taking it to a _whole_ different level.

The sudden-spiking anger too sizzling to handle, Porthos sharply turned away, not waiting for a response to his questions, and started towards the men in front of the building, his face and posture all _Musketeer-in-charge-of-mission_. With a bizarre, distinctly immature drive to ignore Aramis's presence, he stalked to where Boutin and Berger were securing the two unconscious Spaniards' hands behind their backs, and approached Duval, who looked up at him from where he was tying the large kerchief around the third Spaniard's thigh.

"How did you get inside the building?" Porthos questioned loudly, making a conscious effort to show his appreciation in his voice. Duval shrugged.

"There's a window at the back. They were already coming out to you when I went in; they didn't hear a thing."

"Can you believe their nerve?" Vidal chimed in, emerging from around the corner with the reins of three horses in his hand, "They didn't even bother setting up a guard. Are they really that arrogant, or just stupid?"

"Probably both," Porthos replied, his eyes hard as he watched Berger collect the Spaniards' weapons. Vidal was the youngest Musketeer in the regiment, and one of the last to receive his pauldron before the start of the war. Porthos liked having him around, perhaps because his eagerness to learn reminded him of d'Artagnan when the Gascon had attached himself to the garrison all those years ago. That he also happened to be a wicked shot was another reason Porthos preferred to have him on his team while out on missions. "But somethin's not right about this. This was too easy."

"It's not that strange," Berger countered. A crooked smile was tugging at his thin lips, accentuating the long, deep scar across his face. "We've been on their tail for almost two days now. They must have known they couldn't shake us off. So they took their chance with their.. ah, _hostage_."

"That worked out pretty well, no?" Duval said, grinning as he threw a glance at Aramis, who was still standing where Porthos had left him, and then looked to Vidal. "You're right, lad. Only the Spanish would be stupid enough to take a Musketeer hostage when being pursued by five."

"Unlucky bastards."

Helpless laughter ensued, Aramis himself unable to stifle a smile at the absurdity of the situation, some of the tension in his shoulders fading as the men approached and surrounded him, welcoming him with warm handshakes and pats on the back. There was no doubt that they were as startled as Porthos at his sudden appearance, but each of these men had been in the regiment long enough to know the bond between the two, and by unspoken agreement, they would leave the questions to Porthos.

Porthos himself watched them from slightly afar, despite himself, feeling something decidedly more pleasant than anger seeping into his chest, gently beginning to warm a part of his heart he had ceased to notice, in the fourteen long months since he had last seen Aramis, that had gone frigid.

But as numbness begins to fade, the cold strikes back with a vengeance.

Turning sharply on his heel, Porthos quenched the meek desire to join his comrades, and busied himself with shouldering one of the unconscious Spaniards and throwing him into the saddle of one of the horses like a sack of grain.

Speaking of grain..

"Oi," he called out, frowning, "if you're all done cuddlin', we're still missin' our supply wagon."

"It must be close," Berger said, turning serious. "We saw wheel tracks leaving the path, leading into the forest. The trees clear out towards the west, there's enough space for a wagon to pass."

"Good. Take Boutin with you and follow where it leads. If you find the wagon by this afternoon, great. If you find more Spaniards with it, don't engage; leave it and come back."

Berger and Boutin exchanged a glance. "What will you do?"

"The rest of us," Porthos threw a surreptitious glance at Aramis, feeling a maddening twinge of discomfort at his presence, "will start back to the camp. We'll take the same route back and camp out on the way for the night. You should have no difficulty findin' us."

"If there are more Spaniards in the area, with or without the wagon," Vidal asked hesitantly, "shouldn't we take them out? That's our mission, isn't it?"

"It is, but the Captain's expectin' us back today, and we won't make it before noon tomorrow. We've lost enough time on the road because of these bastards." He glared at the unconscious man slung across the horse. "We're lucky if we find our wagon today. If not, we don' have more time to search for it, or go fishin' for more of these rats."

"There _are_ more of them in the area," Aramis put, unexpectedly joining the conversation. He picked up his weapons belt from amongst the pile the Musketeers had gathered from the Spanish and their hideout, looking up at the men while putting it back on. "This isn't the first Spanish party I came upon. That one," he pointed at the tall Spaniard who had held the arquebus to his neck, "is called Fuente. I rode here with him and another one called Almas yesterday. Before that, they were with a party of six. I came upon them on the road from Troyes, about eight miles back."

"Why did they come here?" Porthos questioned, frowning. "Where are they going?"

"I do not know. These two," he pointed at the remaining Spaniards, "were waiting here when we arrived. Almas didn't stop; from what I could gather, he rode on to meet another group, but I do not know where, or how many."

Boutin swore.

"Alrigh'," Porthos sighed, not the least bit pleased about this new information, as if he needed more reasons to be grouchy, "we'll report that to the Cap'n when we get back. Let's get on." Then, reluctantly, he turned to Aramis. "You comin' with us?" Because he needed to ask, didn't he, even though he would stubbornly hold back all the questions cluttering and cloying at the tip of his tongue, at least until felt ready to speak to him again.

Aramis met his eyes with a hard, unwavering look. But when he spoke, his voice was as soft as it was firm. "I am," he said.

"Then we're movin' out," Porthos ordered loudly. He nodded at the departing Boutin and Berger, helped Duval sling the other unconscious Spaniard on a second horse while Vidal and Aramis took up the extra weapons, and the King's Musketeers, along with Aramis and three Spanish captives, began their arduous journey back towards to rest of their regiment.

And God give Porthos patience, it was going to be a very long trek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea Porthos would give me such a difficult time with Aramis. Apologies for everything that's hanging in the air, but the dust shall settle soon enough.


	3. Demystified

* * *

**Demystified**

****

~*~ 

Normally, if asked, Aramis wouldn't list stubbornness as a prominent feature of Porthos's character. Normally, if Porthos thought about it, he wouldn't list patience as one of Aramis's best virtues, either. So it came as no surprise to either of them when, barely ten minutes after the small group of Musketeers and their captives began their wet, muddy journey through the forest, it was Porthos who broke the wall of silence he had thrust between himself and the redeemed Musketeer.

"Alright then. Speak."

Aramis's eyebrows shot upwards at the gruff instruction, but he wasted no time matching his steps to Porthos's, keeping up as they walked a good distance ahead of the rest of the company.

"What do you want to know?"

"I want to know what Tréville's letter says," came the immediate reply.

"It informs Athos that I have been reassigned my duty as a Musketeer in His Majesty's regiment."

"That's all?" A pause. "Any orders from the Minister?"

"None given to me."

Porthos spared a sideways glance at Aramis from under the brim of his hat, looking over him with some suspicion as if to make sure the man walking beside him really was Aramis. Then, he tipped his head towards where the Spaniards were being shepherded behind them by Duval and Vidal.

"How did you end up with that lot?"

The marksman took a few long moments to reply, and when he did, his voice was carefully neutral. "They were harassing a family fleeing their home."

Porthos hummed understandingly. "Outnumbered?"

"Outnumbered," Aramis confirmed with a nod, his gaze among the surrounding trees, "... and slightly rusty, I'm afraid."

That must have taken some effort to admit, but Porthos couldn't help but snort. "You don' say." And if he hadn't completely managed to keep the sarcasm out, well, Aramis couldn't fault him for that. Taking advantage of the other man's wandering gaze, Porthos looked him up and down for evidence of mistreatment in the hands of his captors. Aside from the thin, improvised bandage on the arm he had glimpsed earlier, now concealed under the nondescript cloak Aramis donned, and an already fading bruise upon the brow, Aramis appeared well and intact.

 _Rusty,_ though _..._

Because, what else after fifteen months in a monk's garb instead of the musketeer uniform, hands holding scriptures and rosary beads instead of a sword and pistol?

The mental image re-sparked the anger that was just beginning to cool, and Porthos huffed, clamping down hard on the feeling before it could erupt.

"Did you at least manage to save that family?"

That earned him a mock-glare, partly-feigned offence in the curl of a lip. "Porthos. Please."

And Porthos snorted again, with genuine amusement this time, because that was more like it, the Aramis he knew peeping from under a hood with a grin on his face. _That_ Aramis, he knew how to talk to.

But the roots of his resentment had had time to go deep. As much as Porthos wanted to, neither of them could simply slide back into the old camaraderie they had enjoyed. Not yet, at least.

Still, they fell into a relatively easy silence for a while, both of them, for the moment, content to discover that they could talk, despite the difficulty. Behind them, Vidal and Duval were talking among themselves as they led the horses bearing the two incapacitated Spaniards, dragging the third, awakened one -Fuente, as Aramis had called him- on foot. The soft patter of the rain and the hush of the leaves underfoot muffled the men's voices until they were all but a pleasant hum in the background; if only they were within some concrete walls instead of under trees, dry and well-rested instead of soaked to the bone and weary after days of pursuit, the weather could have been beautiful.

"How are the others?" Aramis inquired after a while. "Athos and d'Artagnan?"

"They're good. Sound an' sane."

Aramis seemed to have hoped for a more elaborate answer, so he pressed on, albeit with a hint of hesitancy. "How was d'Artagnan's first battle?"

_d'Artagnan's first battle.._

_Their first campaign - the utter disaster that was the siege of Leuven_ – "It weren't a victory," Porthos growled.

He hadn't thought about that since.. _when?_ He couldn't remember; perhaps since the sieges, the battles, the scout missions, and the marching and the waiting and bleeding and fear had begun to pile up one over the other until it had all become an unintelligible heap; until it had begun to feel like the only state of existence there really was.

Was it really not even two whole years since the start of it all?

When the Musketeers had set out from Paris to join the forces of Maréchal Urbain de Maillé-Brézé across the northern border, it was early June, mere weeks after the declaration of war. Already in Spanish territory, the Maréchal had formed an alliance with the Dutch to invade the Spanish northern lands from two sides. The French armies had won a quick victory in Les Avins just a few weeks prior; encouraged by that initial success, they had looted their way to Leuven, a small town east of Brussels, under Spanish rule, and that was where, twelve days after setting out from the capital, the King's regiment had joined them.

There had been no pitched battle on that land. As the Musketeers had camped before the city's formidable walls, there were long days of digging under the relentless summer sun, days and nights of attacking the ramparts only to be repelled, time after time, by the Flemish, German and Spanish defenders of the city. Leuven was too well-fortified; the movement of the troops too well observed from its high towers to make any significant advance without being checked. It had become apparent after the first few days, that on top of being at a strategic disadvantage, the Maréchal and his generals were content to send companies of men to assault the walls over and over in the same manner, and expect a different outcome.

One night, when the moon was almost full, with the approval of the openly curious Maréchal, Athos had led the Musketeers in a surprise sortie. It had been a hail Mary, really, a desperate attempt at a breakthrough, something resembling a small victory, at least some small progress, if only to boost the soldiers' morale. In one night, the assault led by the Musketeer captain had delivered a bigger blow to the enemy's defenses than the total sum of the preceding days- and still it would prove as useless as anything else they had done. With the arrival of a Spanish relief army mere days after that assault, on the eleventh day of the siege, the Maréchal had ordered his forces to abandon the attempt and retreat north towards Dutch territories.

Porthos would never forget the way the silvery light of the moon had spilled over the carnage at the bottom of those walls, sprinkling over dark pools of blood like snow dust and blanketing the piles of broken bodies strewn across the field as if in mockery of what the men had just done.

 _There_ d'Artagnan had first seen what poor organization, insufficient supplies and untrained soldiers would cause in war; _there_ d'Artagnan had gotten his first glimpse of what awaited himself and his brothers-in-arms in the months to come.

War was an altogether different beast from guarding the king in his own capital.

"And Athos?" Aramis queried.

"Best damn captain we had since Tréville," Porthos deadpanned - so dry, the man in question himself would be proud. It drew a quick smile from Aramis, and, unbidden, Porthos felt the pull of a responding one on his own lips.

He could ask his own questions to Aramis then. His real questions - it certainly felt as good a time as any. Instead, Porthos just let it be. For the moment, he was simply content to share one genuine smile with his best friend.

* * *

The first sign of trouble appeared late in the afternoon, soon after they stopped by the side of the road for a small break. The rain had finally let up not too long ago; the dimmed, feeble daylight could barely penetrate the gloom of the forest through the thick canopy of the oaks. As Vidal minded the animals and Aramis kept an eye on the captives, Porthos caught sight of Duval's stiff posture as the Musketeer stood guard, pistol at hand, atop the steep rise flanking the opposite side of the road. His grey eyes were carefully scanning the woodland.

Throwing a glance at Aramis to make sure matters were at hand, Porthos climbed the slope in three steps and approached, tilting his chin at the other man in unspoken inquiry.

"We mustn't linger," Duval muttered, attention barely diverted from the trees, "'tis too convenient for an ambush."

Porthos frowned. They had spent the last three days cleaning this very area from remnants of the Spanish attackers, which had already been far and few between; he hadn't been expecting trouble. But he knew better than to dismiss Duval's heeding.

"A hunch?"

"Prick at the back of my neck," Duval confirmed tersely, "Perhaps for ten minutes now."

"Got it." No further explanation was needed. Clapping the man on the shoulder, Porthos hastened back down to the path, motioning to Aramis and Vidal.

"Stay alert. We might have company."

Hands moved instinctively to the weapons at their belts; Porthos motioned for Aramis to keep an eye on their side of the road as Duval watched out on the opposite direction on high ground. With Vidal at his side, Porthos moved to the captives, checking to see if their bonds were secure.

"If you try to run," he growled at them, pulling on the rope around one man's wrists, "you'll get shot. Simple." He looked disdainfully at Fuente, who stood, perhaps a bit too straight-backed, a bit too calm for Porthos's liking. The man's stony expression grated at his nerves, setting off alarm bells in his mind but what-

There was a sudden sound, far but perfectly clear: a distinctive, high-pitched whistle with a swoop in the end. A look of recognition passed at lightning speed between Vidal and Porthos right before Porthos dove, knowing Vidal had just done the same, throwing himself down onto the underbush.

"ARAMIS, DOWN!"

Barely had the word left his lips that the first ball wheezed past their heads, snapping a low branch and embedding itself directly into the large tree Porthos had just been facing. Startled by the sudden commotion, the horses neighed and bolted; cursing aloud, Porthos looked frantically around for the captives, spotting Fuente and the wounded one instinctively taking cover behind the nearest trees; the third… Porthos caught sight of the man's motion through the wood just as a second shot exploded to his right.

He heard a yell, turned his neck so sharply it snapped, and saw Vidal jumping to his feet to run after the fleeing Spaniard.

"Vidal! Get back!"

On high ground, Duval let loose his own shot and let himself slide down in the mud, looking over his shoulder across the path as he began reloading.

"One down!" he informed harshly, pressed against the slope with his head down, "I counted at least five, maybe more. They're not moving in yet."

"We can handle them," Aramis said, a hint of a question in his voice, looking over to Porthos as if in deference –and despite their predicament, that look made Porthos feel very, _very_ odd. Instead of formulating an answer he bolted across the path, positioning beside Duval.

"Stay with 'em," he told Aramis briefly; carefully keeping his head low, he peered above the slope, spotted the movement ahead, took his aim and fired.

"Two down."

Duval nearly jumped when a shot embedded itself into the earth mere inches from his right leg, sending stone and damp earth flying over his arm. He whipped around in surprise to see Aramis firing in the opposite direction.

"They're coming from this side as well!"

They heard more shots nearby, yells and a cry of pain; balls had begun flying in earnest overhead and whoever it was that attacked them, it was already clear they had no shortage of ammunition – and they were _definitely_ more than five.

"Well, we ain' gonna sit ducks here!" Porthos yelled, loosing another shot as he took advantage of a brief lull, "Aramis, how you doin' over there?"

"Fine!" Aramis yelled back, firing his own pistol. "Most of them seem to be on your side; I saw only two.. maybe three of them ahead this way." He stuffed the ball into the barrel and threw a glance at Porthos over his shoulder. "We either stay here until we're out of ammunition…"

"... or we go on a hunt," Porthos finished for him, a predatory glint in his eyes. He motioned for Duval to exchange his position with Aramis, and to his credit, the other musketeer did not even bat an eye.

"Don' get shot," Porthos advised, if a bit coyly, unable to resist the thrill of the battle pulsing in his veins. Duval gritted his teeth as he slid the last couple of feet down to crouch behind the boulder.

"I don't see Vidal. Where'd he disappear to?"

"He'll be fine," Porthos said with conviction. He turned to look at Aramis, found him as ready as he'd always been, and was all he could do not do a double-take; so many times had they been in this situation. He briefly wondered, curious, about whether Aramis was still as sharp a shot as he'd been.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

They waited just until two shots flew harmlessly over their heads, and simultaneously jumped to their feet and fired. One man went down with a cry, the other slipped behind a tree with a ball in his shoulder. Ducking down again, Porthos looked incredulously at his friend.

"Have you been practicin' shootin' in a _convent_?"

"Damn right I was," Aramis returned with a grin, deft fingers quickly reloading the pistol.

"You said you were rusty!"

"Who do you think I'd practice swords with – the bellboy?"

Behind them, Duval's weapon went off; after reloading, Porthos and Aramis cautiously climbed atop the slope, taking out two more of their attackers, and began moving in through the trees. It soon became clear that only three more men were left; Porthos took one down with his last shot, and they quickly dispatched the final two with their swords.

Weapons in hand, they ran back to the road, only to find Duval pacing over the two captives, looking ready to tear someone's limbs apart. From among the trees Berger and Boutin were emerging, Vidal supported between the two of them, heavily limping.

"All clear?"

"All clear."

"Gents," Porthos saluted the two musketeers with a nod even as his eyes roamed over Vidal. The young man's face was screwed up in pain, although Porthos couldn't clearly see his wound.

"Musket ball through his leg," Berger supplied in reply to the unasked question. They lowered Vidal onto the boulder Aramis and Duval had used as shelter earlier.

"Let me see." Aramis immediately crouched before the lad, and Boutin gave a hand to remove the boot. Porthos glanced around.

"The one who tried to run?"

"Dead. Caught in the crossfire."

A big, long sigh escaped from Porthos's lips then. The rush of battle was quickly ebbing, leaving him weary; he rubbed his eyes with two fingers and adjusted his hat, for a few moments, simply breathing to calm himself down. Then, he turned to Berger.

"What the hell happened?"

"We followed the tracks," the man replied with a shrug, taking off his own hat and reaching for his flask. "We came upon a party of twelve. The wagon was nowhere in sight, but the men were preparing to move out. We waited to see what direction they'd take, but they set out towards here. We couldn't engage them on our own so we followed; they cut through the forest to catch up with you. We couldn't get ahead of them to warn you, so we remained behind."

"Wait, wait – how the hell did they even know we're here, that we're takin' this path?"

"Beats me," Berger muttered angrily. Boutin looked up from where he was helping with Vidal's leg.

"Their hideout was barely at an hour's distance to that ruin we found these in this morning." He nodded a chin towards the two Spaniards. "If any of them were close by and heard the shots, they could have easily carried word back to their camp before Berger and I found it."

"It's still not adding up," Aramis interjected tightly, looking up briefly from Vidal's leg, which was now free of the boot and bleeding heavily from a hole in his calf. "If there was a camp that close, why did these men-" he, too, jerked his head at the Spaniards "-choose to stop at that ruin yesterday instead of riding on to there?"

"I'd say they'd planned to ambush us all along, but even we didn't know we'd be specifically in this area yesterday."

The four musketeers exchanged a long, hard glance. They had too many questions and no reasonable answers; all that they knew for sure was that this much enemy activity, right in the heart of France, could not bode well. It pricked them all like thorns in their sides.

"Let's not waste more time," Porthos declared decisively. "We'll get answers out of the captives when we're back at the camp." He turned to Aramis, laying a soft hand on Vidal's shoulder. "Is it bad?"

"No, he's lucky," Aramis returned. "The ball passed clean through the flesh. I'll stitch it…" He looked around confusedly for a moment, then sighed. "We need to find the horses."

Muttering under his breath, Porthos motioned to Berger to join him in the search.

This was turning out to be an awfully long day.

* * *

In the end, they found the horses nibbling on the wet undergrowth not too far away from the forest road. Every single man in the company was soaked to the bone, weary and covered in mud after the day's relentless march, and Vidal's wound needed to be tended. With less than an hour of daylight left, they decided to leave the road and move further into the trees until they found a spacious grove to set up camp. And within a couple of hours, the company of eight had settled comfortably around two small fires lit in pits they had easily dug, holding out their hands and feet to the glorious warmth of the flames. Vidal's leg was stitched, and the wounded Spaniard's thigh re-checked –Aramis's skill much appreciated by the former, and acknowledged with a grunt by the latter. They had devoured their meagre meal of bread, hard cheese and dried meat, and Duval and Porthos had agreed to take first watch.

And so, when Porthos returned from his first quick tour of the perimeter, the men having gone to sleep around the fires, he found Aramis still sitting on one of the logs, nursing a tin cup of wine, staring thoughtfully into the dancing flames.

Porthos let out a very loud sigh. This had really been a very, _very_ long day.

He was still not fully comfortable with Aramis's unexpected presence. He would readily admit, as they'd fought side by side earlier in the day, it had felt like nothing had changed. But as much as Porthos relished the familiarity of it, here he was, standing by a tree, his feet reluctant to go on to speak with his friend.

In the end, it was the utter ridiculousness, the utter _unfairness_ of that feeling that propelled him onward. He lowered himself next to the other man, and spoke softly to him.

"I'm angry at you."

Aramis slowly turned his head. Both eyebrows were raised, but the surprise slowly disappeared and he waited for Porthos to continue.

"I don' 'ave a clue what to do with it."

"I understand that," Aramis acknowledged.

"That doesn't mean a thing, Aramis." Porthos shook his head. "It don't solve anythin'."

"If I- "

"See, I'm angry," Porthos continued, not his tone, not his face, but only the look in his eyes confirming that statement, "'cause I'm sittin' down with my best friend now, an' _this_ is the conversation I've got to have with him."

Though he did not respond, a myriad of emotions flashed across Aramis's face; then Porthos blinked, and the only thing he could see was a strange mask of calm. Strange, because it was unexpected; but it wasn't unfamiliar - Porthos knew that look. Porthos knew when Aramis had a plan, and when he was improvising.

There would be no improvisation here. He had prepared for this.

His nostrils flared, fingers slowly clenched out of his own accord - to be blindsided like this, _again,_ by this man who was supposed to be his friend _-_

"I'm sorry," Aramis offered quietly, entrapping Porthos's scathing gaze with a scorching sincerity. " _I am sorry_ , my friend. You deserved better from me."

"Damn right we did," was out of Porthos's mouth before he knew it. Dropping his gaze, Aramis released a sigh, and took a sip from the cup in his hand, moistening his lips before speaking quietly.

"You know why I left."

"You made an oath to God. That's all you ever said."

"Is that not enough?"

Porthos frowned, blinking in surprise.

"You let me go, Porthos."

The voice was still soft, still blank _,_ but a shielding layer had slid behind that gaze- the first sign of resistance since their encounter that morning. "You asked me if that's what I had wanted, and you let me go."

"And how did we depart?" Porthos queried, "One for all? Remember that?"

"I do." Now there was a hint of steel in his voice too. "I haven't forgotten."

Porthos waited, but nothing else seemed forthcoming.

"That's it?"

That was all Aramis had to say?

He shook his head. A _fool_ he'd been to except a proper conversation, a proper explanation – once again, Aramis was shutting the door on his face. Porthos was on his feet and already walking away when Aramis's voice halted his step.

"I was half out of my mind when that oath slipped my lips."

The voice was soft; the words not an excuse, but a statement of reality. "I'd heard them taking out Constance from her cell, and I'd thought… if d'Artagnan lived, he would curse my name every day for as long as he drew breath."

Pursing his lips, Porthos slowly turned and walked back to his spot, lowering himself down and waiting.

"Do you know what happened right after that?" Aramis looked up into his friend's eyes. "Milady de Winter arrived, to set me free."

Porthos's expression turned sour upon hearing that. "Could 'ave done without her in that whole mess." He was slightly disoriented at the direction the conversation was taking, but content to keep talking nevertheless. Aramis flinched at his words, but Pothos merely huffed with the rise of an eyebrow. "Don' make me say I'm glad she saved you. But I'm not grateful to _her._ What she did, she didn't do it for the good in her heart; whatever twisted thing she and Athos had, she did it because of that. If anythin', thank God Athos still held sway over her."

Aramis nodded at that. "Regardless of her own reasons, God sent her to spare my life, Porthos. For that I'll always be grateful."

"See, that's what I don' get," Porthos admitted, "So what? We're all instruments of God?" He spoke slowly, doing his best to keep anger at bay, but bitterness was taking advantage of it to seep through. "What was _your_ purpose in God's grand plan of my life; what good did fighting a war without you at my back for all these months do for me?" Even as the words spilled from his lips, bells were chiming 'blasphemy!' in his brain, but he wouldn't take them back even if he could.

"Porthos…" Aramis looked at him long and hard, and though his face remained impassive, Porthos nearly flinched - such was the longing for understanding in those eyes. "I have _innocent blood_ on my hands," Aramis said, voice dropped to a whisper and slowly holding out his palms, as if Porthos could really see blood there. "The Queen and the dauphin might be safe, but Doctor Lemay? Lady Margaurite? Margaurite – I _used_ her. I couldn't remain in Paris, I was putting everyone I loved in danger. Including _you._ "

"Oi, hold on," Porthos objected, holding up a hand. "If anyone's got blood on their hands, it's Rochefort, not you. And secondly.." He paused, pursing his lips as anger tried one more assault against his restraint, "You wouldn't have remained in Paris if you'd come. We were goin' to flippin' _war_."

"I needed _atonement!_ "

Porthos sat back, completely taken aback by the abrupt burst of emotion, and blinked under a frown as Aramis's foot began to tap the earth in a thoroughly unbecoming display of agitation.

And Porthos was at a loss.

* * *

For Aramis, talking to Porthos was like looking into a mirror he had not gazed at in fifteen months. Alone, he had gone over it in his head many times, this meeting, whenever it might happen –he'd never doubted it would. He'd never expected this to be easy, to be resolved quickly. But he'd thought he would explain himself, and believed Porthos would accept him.

All of that was thrown out the window now. Porthos was holding up a mirror, and the reflection Aramis saw there was nothing like he had imagined.

How could he make Porthos _see,_ make him understand? He didn't even seem to think Aramis _guilty_ , in _need_ of atonement, when it was nothing other than guilt that had driven Aramis's decisions since that terrible day. What a twisted irony it was that each new decision guided by guilt seemed only to create more of it!

Sighing deeply, Aramis rubbed his face with both hands.

"If I had gone to war," he began anew with renewed calm, "and died on the front, I would have died with honour. For king and country, I would have fulfilled my duty." He looked up into Porthos's eyes, willing him to understand what this meant to him. "And I would have died with an unpaid debt to my God."

"Explain that to me." Porthos's words still had a hard edge to them, but there was no anger. "You said, when we came to get you, that you devoted your life to God. Explain why you're here, why now."

But how could Aramis begin to explain his past year, the events that had led to his decision to return, or the rationale he had configured for his own actions? _Why you're here, why now -_ these questions should have simple answers, at least _ready_ answers, but he was finding none within reach - Porthos's sheer presence was knocking him off of his already precarious balance.

"I can't," he admitted in the end, the words taking him by surprise. He hadn't meant to say that. He'd thought he had figured it out, difficult as it would be to make his friends understand; hearing his own confused admission, Aramis sat back, blinking at Porthos, and feeling strangely... deserted.

His loss must have shown on his face because Porthos's eyes suddenly softened. Aramis watched that hard expression slowly melt into something much more familiar – something he had missed, _missed_ more than words could express, and he had to swallow to ease the sudden constriction in his throat.

"There was a raid," he muttered finally, carefully selecting the words and stringing them together to form his sentences. If he couldn't give an explanation, at least he could offer context. "Mercenaries. German, Spanish.. they were a mixed bunch. Several of the brothers were killed, along with many men and women from the neighboring village. They sacked the larders. Burned the fresh crop… Occupied the monastery for nearly two weeks." He sighed. "There is not much left in Douai."

And the questions were there, waiting to be asked: why hadn't he stuck to his oath if it was that important to him; why hadn't he just relocated to another monastery? Worse, was it not cowardly to not remain in Douai, to help get the monastery up on its feet?

To his own ears, it sounded as if he had deserted the brothers.

_Again?_

_God_. He'd thought he had figured this out _._

"Oi." He looked up at Porthos's softened voice, all gruff compassion now, and the bigger man leaned towards him. "I'm sorry to hear that. That can't 'ave been easy."

Aramis nodded, thankful for that.

"I couldn't remain in Douai. I couldn't go anywhere else either." He sighed, already tired of trying to loosen this devil's knot. "I know my actions don't seem to make sense. But I… couldn't remain in Douai," he heard himself repeat, voice fading in his own confusion. He shook his head wearily, looking up into his friend's eyes. "Please, Porthos. Don't begrudge me my faith."

"Hey." Porthos shifted close, one large hand coming to rest on the curve of Aramis's neck. "I don' begrudge you anythin'. I don' need to understand all that, though God knows, it sounds like _you_ do." He squeezed that shoulder gently before letting go. For a few moments, they simply sat there on that log, gazing at the flames.

"Did you find it, then?" Porthos questioned a while later. "Atonement?"

Aramis frowned as he thought over the question. "I'm beginning to think that it's a process."

Pothos made a non-committal sound. "What does bein' here mean, then?" he asked, catching Aramis's tired gaze. "I'm tryin' to understand how your thinkin' now. Because where I'm standin', it ain' looking like what I used to know."

Puzzled, Aramis frowned, waiting for him to elaborate, but instead, for the first time since their meeting, a deep hurt crept into the look in Porthos's eyes.

"In all those years we fought side by side, I'd never 'ave thought you'd take stayin' in a monastery over goin' to war."

"Porthos, it wasn't a _choice_ ," Aramis reiterated, almost pleadingly, "I was keeping a _promise_."

"It ain' looked that way to me." He paused. "You could 'ave at least _pretended_ you wanted to come. You wouldn' even stand there to talk to us, Aramis. You turned us away in _minutes,_ as if we were nothin' to you."

"It's not - Porthos, that's not -" Aramis was grasping at words - _what_ was it not; true? He couldn't voice aloud the fact that he'd had to turn his friends away the way he had, because two more minutes of conversation, two more minutes of looking at their faces and he'd have broken his oath for joining them to ride to the front. His conscience would never leave him alone.

But, good God, it hadn't left him alone in Douai _anyway_. How could he put together an explanation when every piece of reasoning he tried to grasp was falling out of his hands?

"What's done is done," Porthos continued, apparently meaning it as well. Then, he gave Aramis a sharp glare. "If you're joinin' the fight lookin' for that atonement, or seekin' some form of punishment- "

Aramis stomach dropped to his feet upon hearing that. Jesus, had they fallen this far apart?

"I am not," he said firmly, "I am _not_. You know me, Porthos, I do not seek repentance that way."

"I _knew_ you," Porthos corrected, almost predictably, and careful as they were, the words still cut Aramis like a shard of glass. "I knew a man who wouldn't do what you did. Now I need to know, _from you,_ that you're still the soldier that you were, the _musketeer_ you were."

And with that, a sudden and true sense of calm descended over.

Could anyone be any fairer than Porthos was being with him right now? There was calm to be found in the fact that Porthos was still Porthos, despite his righteous anger, despite his resentment; and Aramis would redeem himself in his eyes, no matter how long that would take.

"What do you need?" he asked sincerely, "How can I prove it to you?"

"You can't," Porthos replied simply. "I'll know. Trust me, Aramis. If you're intendin' to stick around, I'll know."

Aramis inclined his head, at least one knot in his chest gloriously loosening. This was familiar territory. He would never back down from a challenge.

"Very well."

"Good. Then lie down your arse and get some sleep. If I were you, I'd come up with a bloody good story to explain all this to the captain tomorrow."

With that, Porthos rose to his feet, and without a backward glance, stepped away to retire for the night. Watching him go, Aramis felt a small, unexpected smile tugging at his lips. The idea of reporting to 'Captain Athos' with Porthos at his side, much like the countless times they'd done before Treville's desk, was a strangely exciting one.

_Captain Athos._

His heart swelled with warmth at the thought. He could not wait to reach the camp and reunite with his friends. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical notes:** In the 17th century the Spanish Empire had large territories to the north of France, including what is today's Netherlands. While, in the series, we only get to hear Spain as France's enemy, it's historically more accurate to talk of the Habsburgs, whose two branches ruled Spain and the Holy Roman Empire (centered in Austria); the Thirty Years War (1635-1648) is therefore best thought as France and its allies (mainly Sweden and Dutch) versus Spain  & the imperial (Holy Roman) armies and their allies. The armies the French fought consisted not just of Spanish but also a mix of men from very diverse backgrounds.
> 
> As for the events mentioned in this chapter: if interested, you can read about Les Avins and the siege of Leuven on Wikipedia. I took the historical narrative and wove the King's Musketeers into it. (An interesting trivia: Maréchal Urbain de Maillé-Brézé was apparently brother-in-law to none other than Cardinal Richlieu.)


	4. (I) The Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Historical background:**  
>   In August 1636, the Spanish/imperial armies crossed the river Somme, took the town of Corbie and advanced as far as Compiégne, which is at just about 100 km's distance from Paris. There was wide-spread panic in the capital, both in court and among the people, that the city was about to be invaded. Luckily for France, on top of wide-scale famine and desertion in the Spanish army, the governor-general of the Spanish Netherlands, Cardinal-Infante, could not be persuaded by his allies to advance on Paris. While the initial danger was thus thwarted, Parisians remained extremely wary for a long time afterwards.
> 
> The Duchy of Lorraine was technically bound to the Holy Roman Empire at the time. Its duke, Charles IV, was known for his anti-Richlieu sentiments and support of Gaston d'Orléans, and was heavily involved in the Spanish armies' above-mentioned advance towards Paris. Lorraine, like Savoy, was a crucial frontier area, and remained an active war zone throughout much of the war.
> 
> By this story's timeline, the events at Corbie would have happened two-to-three weeks prior to this chapter.

* * *

**The Reunion (I/II)**

 

~*~

 

The mood that greeted them in the main camp when they reached it in the early afternoon was, if nothing else, sombre. They spotted d'Artagnan almost immediately, standing in the open with hands on his hips, kicking dirt in dejection. Not far from him, a large group of musketeers had conglomerated in front of a big, blue tent. A strange quiet seemed to hang over them, whirling amidst the men like a cloud of smoke; they were talking in hushed, low tones as Porthos and the company made their way into the settlement, taking in the expressions of sorrow and muted anger on the faces they walked by.

"What's goin' on?" Porthos questioned one man, stopping him with a hand on his arm. The man – Félix, if memory served- pursed his lips with a scowl.

"Cormier just died," he informed them sullenly, shaking his head, and marched on his way without lingering. There was a sharp intake of breath; Berger shoved the Spaniard he was guarding into Duval's chest and broke off from the group to stalk towards the gathered crowd.

Nobody tried to stop him.

"Cormier?"

"A musketeer was burned bad in the fire the Spanish set," Porthos explained quietly to Aramis, his jaw tightly clenched as his eyes tracked Berger's retreat. "Cormier was a father. Two little ones. They'd lost their mama as well."

Aramis's fingers moved to clasp the cross around his neck and his lips moved in silent prayer for the departed. Porthos turned around to face the men in his company, taking in their deepened frowns and stiffened shoulders. Something sour was swirling in his own stomach, but there were matters to be dealt with.

"The mood seems ugly," he commented quietly, addressing Duval and Boutin. "Cormier was very well-liked, we can't risk takin' the prisoners through the camp for everyone to see. Take 'em out back, as quietly as you can. Get 'em in a tent an' stand guard. I'll send men to relieve you as soon as we report to the cap'n."

The others nodded their agreement, and Porthos turned to Vidal. The young musketeer was leaning against the horse he had just dismounted, carefully balanced on one foot, trying -and failing- to hide the misery of his wound.

"Vidal, get yourself to the medical tent," Porthos suggested to him, "We got a long march ahead; you'll need that leg sorted out. Will you manage on your own?"

Vidal nodded, shooting him a look of gratitude, and as the three musketeers took their leave, with Porthos commending them with pats on the shoulder for a mission well-handled, Aramis turned his attention to the main camp. A narrow thoroughfare stretched before them, cutting the musketeer's temporary camp from one end to another and dividing it into two uneven blocks. Dozens of white, picketed tents lay strewn across the now-marshy clearing at the edge of the forest; the king's banner, with the yellow _fleur-de-lys_ upon the sky blue background, rose atop several of the tents, some high and some low, swaying gently in the breeze. The sight itself was enough to fill Aramis's heart with unexpected pride. His eyes skidded over d'Artagnan, who was now conversing with another musketeer and yet to be alerted to his friends' arrival, and finally came to rest upon the small crowd.

The dark blue tent at the center of the gathering, Aramis guessed, must be where the sick and wounded were tended - and the dead, prepared for their eternal rest. Out of an ingrained sense of respect to his comrades, he took a moment to remember the deceased musketeer. The name came to mind readily enough –Armand Cormier- but a face proved difficult to attach to the dark-haired, stout figure his brain managed to conjure. With a sudden stab of dread, he wondered how many of his brothers-in-arms had already been given to earth since he'd been away.

Then, movement caught his attention among the men as they appeared to be making way for someone. A solitary figure emerged from among them, and Aramis's lips twitched the moment he recognized Athos - it was, although, more with his heart than with his eyes. Supporting a perfectly ordinary doublet and breeches, Athos wore no visible sign of his higher rank, but the tension in his frame could be detected even from the distance. Crossing the narrow, sloppy thoroughfare with measured strides, he quickly left the men behind and disappeared inside the labyrinth of tents.

d'Artagnan, too, had watched Athos's retreat. The moment he looked up, his gaze fell directly on Aramis. The marksman watched as his friend's expression morphed into one of surprise and he immediately started towards them.

"Aramis! Porthos!"

The exclamation was a mixture of surprise, relief and confusion; despite the sombre atmosphere around them Aramis couldn't help but grin when he was quickly enclasped in an eager embrace.

"It's wonderful to see you!" d'Artagnan enthused, seemingly stuck between a grin and a frown. "What happened? You were supposed to be back yesterday, Porthos! Did you run into trouble?" Dark eyes roamed over the bigger man, searching for injuries.

"Trouble," Porthos affirmed calmly, jerking his head towards Aramis, "an' him."

Shooting Aramis a glance, d'Artagnan postponed the obvious question in favour of the more urgent one. "What of the others?"

"All good. Vidal took a shot to the leg, but it's nothin' serious."

"So you did find more Spaniards," d'Artagnan nodded, frown deepening as if his suspicions were confirmed. "What happened, then? Did you find the wagon?" And unable to rein it in any longer he added, "How did you even meet?"

Smiling affectionately, Aramis reached out to squeeze the Gascon's shoulder.

"There are some long answers to those questions, my friend." Beside him, Porthos huffed in agreement.

"I just used the words 'trouble' and 'Aramis' in the same sentence," he pointed out as if giving d'Artagnan an obvious hint, "Do you really need to ask?"

Aramis couldn't help but give him a look.

"Surely you're not surprised I brought trouble with me."

One eyebrow raised all the way to the edge of a bandana. "For exactly how long did I remain surprised?"

"Hmph. Thirty seconds?"

"Twenty. An' for the record, that was the surprise of seein' you; not the trouble."

"While that is all very well and nice," d'Artagnan interjected, twirling a hand in the air with an amused smile on his lips, "some of us are awaiting answers here."

Letting a grin reign free on his face, Porthos took pity on his friend. "Come on then," he prodded amicably, patting him on the shoulder as he manoeuvred past the Gascon and started walking towards the tents. "Let's get to the cap'n. I don' fancy reportin' it all twice."

"As if you ever report to me," d'Artagnan muttered under his breath, and without loitering, the two friends fell into step behind their third.

Walking deeper into the musketeers' settlement with Porthos's lead, Aramis was having trouble keeping his smile concealed, thinking it hardly appropriate when a musketeer had just died. "Does he call him _cap'n_ all the time?" he still wondered in an undertone as they walked, the mud squelching under their boots at every step they took. D'Artagnan's own smile was congenial.

"Not all the time."

He threw a friendly arm around the marksman's shoulders and pulled him close. "It really is great to have you back," he repeated sincerely, eyes shining, smile broadening to reveal still miraculously white teeth against the sun-tanned skin. "We've missed you."

"It's very good to be back, _mon ami_ ," Aramis returned, for a second, amused at the way his own heart playfully threatened to burst. Being among the musketeers - not to mention among his friends - was like a breath of fresh air after not realizing how stale it had become after a while. He craned his neck to get a better look at d'Artagnan, studying him with a curiosity born out of a lengthy separation. There were faint new scars on the Gascon's face, the shadowy stubble on his chin apparently still refusing to grow into a proper beard to hide them; even with the uniform and armor he was as lean as he'd always been. Like Porthos had assured Aramis the other day, on the whole, d'Artagnan appeared as well and fit as ever.

"You look very well."

"Well, _some_ of us should," d'Artagnan returned with a grimace, making Aramis wonder whether he'd just touched a bizarrely sore point. "Athos looks half-dead on his feet these days, and Porthos…" He gestured hopelessly towards the bigger man who turned to shoot him a 'go on if you dare' look over his shoulder– and of course d'Artagnan did just that - "He has that… _beard_ …"

"Oi, I hear you!"

"Fear not, my friend," Aramis chuckled, bumping a shoulder into d'Artagnan's. "I am back and shall help you keep up the regiment's fine reputation."

He looked up ahead as they advanced among the crooked tents, passing by men polishing their blades, cleaning pistols, going to-and-fro running errands, or simply passing the time. He absentmindedly pulled up on a glove.

"How is Athos?"

d'Artagnan's grin faded like a fallen leaf.

"One of our men just died," he informed quietly, gaze momentarily dropping. "Athos was with him all night. Sat with Cormier until he gave his last breath."

Aramis winced in sympathy. Porthos grunted ahead of them, and before they could exchange further words, they had reached the captain's tent.

They found their fourth sitting at the edge of a cot, bent forward with elbows on his knees, the heels of his palms pressed firmly against his eyes. He raised his head upon hearing them enter, but did not move to rise; instead, for a long moment, he simply looked on, red-rimmed eyes blinking under a frown as he took in their faces. His brow was wrinkled as if fighting a headache; his skin ashen in the gray daylight, but as he took in the sight of his three best friends, a wave of relief smoothed some of the lines on his forehead. Lips parted, and his jaw worked, but no words came.

Then he swallowed, and almost immediately, and almost frighteningly, that familiar mask of stoicism slid over his features like a suit of armour. Now merely exhaustion left in sight, he pushed himself to his feet and approached, one hand reaching to clasp Porthos's bicep.

"This is how you follow the captain's orders?" he drawled hoarsely, no real demand or an expectation of answer in his voice. Porthos shook his head as if in lament.

Athos turned to Aramis then, and a faint of smile ghosted over his lips; if even that had taken some effort, Aramis wouldn't begrudge his friend that. Two cool hands were placed on either side of his face and he was pulled into a sure, firm embrace.

_God… Aramis had missed them._

He returned the hug, relishing the sense of comfort and companionship that had washed over him at the mere sight of Athos. Now that he was here among them once again, the length of time he had been bereft of his friends' company was slowly crashing down on him, leaving him almost lightheaded. Without noticing, he strengthened his hold on Athos. Aramis was only now coming to realize that in all his months in the monastery in Douai, he had never been _truly_ relaxed.

A strange revelation, indeed.

"You don't know how good it is to see you, my friend." The sentiment spilled from his lips without much of his control.

The hyaline smile on Athos's lips gained a bit more substance then. Though he did not speak, the look in his eyes spoke clearly that the feeling was mutual. He turned and walked over a crate in a corner to pull out a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"d'Artagnan, two more glasses, if you please."

The Gascon dashed out with a nod, and Athos proceeded to pour the wine as Porthos and Aramis spied the spare appropriate surfaces they could sit on. Aramis ended up pulling the lone stool in the tent and Porthos carefully perched on the small wooden chest that housed Athos's personal belongings.

"We received Tréville's message two days ago," Athos told them, handing the cups to his friends and moving to sit back on the cot, addressing Aramis. "I take it you encountered Porthos's group on the way?"

Porthos rolled his eyes as Aramis sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. "'Encounter' is one word for it."

One eyebrow arched questioningly, and the two friends took it as a cue to launch into a makeshift mission report -of sorts. Supported with Aramis's peculiar inputs, Porthos quickly gave an outline of the events culminating in the previous day's meeting, the altercations and the capture of the Spaniards. Athos nodded in understanding at the loss of the supply wagon, and in satisfaction upon hearing about the Spanish captives.

"Do you think they will be useful?"

"As far as I can tell, neither of them hold rank," Porthos replied, "They're not in uniform. We don' even know if they're proper soldiers, mercenaries or somethin' else." He shrugged. "Doesn' matter. We'll make 'em useful."

"There's more." Cradling the wine glass in both palms, Aramis's gaze swept from d'Artagan to Athos. "Before Fuente and his men stopped at the clearing, they were on their way to meeting with another group. I do not think it was the same one Berger and Boutin found later. They wouldn't have stopped if they knew there was another camp in the vicinity."

"You're saying there's another group of enemy soldiers somewhere nearby?"

"We'd thought Fuente and the other two were the men we'd been tracking," Porthos spoke slowly, "but they weren't. The ones we were followin' must 'ave went on to join the men who attacked us later. Instead of catchin' up to them, we stumbled upon you." He turned to Aramis with a look of surprise on his face. "So you keep sayin' God works in mysterious ways."

Aramis's grin could almost be called triumphant. "I've seen it too many times to not believe."

"Huh."

"God's guiding hand aside," Athos interjected, albeit with a small smile playing on his own lips, "news of even more Spanish soldiers around here does not bode well. It sounds like they might not even be in contact with each other- which, if you think about it, might prove worse than the alternative. Did you not hear anything of their plans when you were them, Aramis?"

Aramis regretfully shook his head. "They were careful not to speak openly in my presence."

"Nine men attacked our camp," Athos continued thoughtfully. "Boutin and Berger found a group of twelve, which may or may not be the one our attackers were attached. Your captors were on their way to meet another group, and there is the question of where they were coming _from._ " He looked up to his friends, his gaze troubled. "I do not see how all this enemy activity has not been detected so far. I have seen no reports mentioning something like this."

"Well, someone in Paris at least must know about it," d'Artagnan pointed out, crossing his arms and tucking fingers under his armpits. "Surely Tréville would have received reports. We're hardly the first or only regiment passing through this area."

"Perhaps," Aramis allowed –being the only one of them who had been to the capital in the last year, d'Artagnan's gaze had landed on him while he spoke- "though Tréville mentioned nothing of the sort to me." He shook his head, releasing a long breath through his nose. "Paris is fraught with fear," he confided to them slowly. "The imperial armies are still in retreat after Compiégne, but the terror of them having come so close..."

His gaze dropped to the wine his glass, remembering the tension that had seeped into his bones during his brief stay in Paris, almost as if his body had inadvertently absorbed the fear that had permeated the very air inside the city's walls.

"Tréville says there is no imminent danger of an attempt on the city," he continued, willing himself to remain in the present. "But the number of smaller enemy regiments scattered in the region is still too high."

D'Artagnan nodded worriedly. "Athos thinks that's why we've been called to join General Toussaine's company. For some specific mission, perhaps."

"It makes sense. It's difficult to keep track of what's happening in Lorraine these days - the Duke was never a friend to Louis, but actively assisting the Spanish in an invasion…"

"Someone's got to do somethin' about what's goin' on _here,_ " Porthos insisted, looking from one of his friends to another.

"It sounds like Musketeer business to me," d'Artagnan agreed with him, throwing a questioning look at Athos, but the captain was quick to shake his head.

"Our orders are clear. We cannot linger here any more than we already have; time is not on our side."

"And what if we leave an' they turn out to be plannin' somethin'? This whole area reeks, Athos; we can't just turn a blind eye."

"Of course not."

Holding Porthos's gaze, Athos coughed slightly, and then, his eyelids slid close as if he could no longer resist them. A night and half a day spent on a low stool at the bedside of a dying comrade, on top having to bury three others and rally the regiment for the upcoming march, had obviously taken its toll. As he sat on the cot with his shoulders bent, doublet hanging open and deep, dark circles around his eyes, he was the picture of absolute weariness.

Still, no more than two seconds after closing his eyes he opened them and continued.

"We have delayed for too long. I'll write a detailed report to Tréville and let him know what is happening. In the meantime, we will take the captives with us to the front and learn from them what we can." He waited until Porthos nodded his consent, then turned to peer at Aramis. "Perhaps you would like to lead their interrogation?"

"I'm yours to command," Aramis replied immediately, completely serious. Athos let loose a slight huff that might have been his depraved version of a snort, but before Aramis could respond to that, someone loudly –and rather awkwardly– cleared his throat outside the tent.

"Captain? Can I come, sir?"

The captain finally pushed himself to his feet.

"You can, Dupond," he said dryly, walking to the entrance, "although if you prefer, you may stand outside and speak from over there. I find myself rather indifferent." Ignoring his friends' snickering, he pulled the flap up to confront a rather confused-looking Jean Dupond.

"What is it?"

"Sir, I'm afraid there's some sort of trouble among the men."

"What trouble?"

"Er, word is, there are Spaniards in the camp.. Some of the men are wanting to talk to them..?"

"Ah, no," Porthos muttered as they all quickly rose to their feet, and Athos motioned for the young aide to lead the way, "Where'd Boutin and Duval take 'em?"

This was exactly what Porthos had feared. The musketeers, in general, were too well-disciplined for such outbreaks of violence, especially in war where all of them knew how valuable prisoners could be; but the whole regiment had been on edge since the attack and Porthos couldn't help but worry that today, in the thick of the men's angered grief, the captives' presence could be the fuse to set them off.

It didn't take long for them to reach their destination, even if they hadn't known where that was: raised voices could be heard as they approached the small, but already growing group of men in front of a small tent at the very outer edge of the camp. Men parted to make way for the captain upon seeing his approach, but they closed tightly in again once Athos and the others were through.

"Let me through, Albert – give me ten minutes with them, that's all I ask!"

"I can't do that, Henri," Boutin was saying from where he stood guard before the tent, the sympathy in his face nevertheless unmistakable. "You need to get back."

"Why are you protecting them? They killed _four_ of us- our _comrades_!"

"Not these two, Henri," Berger was trying to reason, "we dealt with them, remember? These men may have nothing to do with it."

The distraught man -Henri Maupassant, best friend to the recently deceased Cormier and alongside whom Athos had sat vigil the previous night- appeared to be caught in that unstable mix of pain and righteous anger. He threw his hands in the air, taking a step back in consternation.

"What's the difference?!" he bellowed, "They _slaughtered_ them, those cowards- they sneaked up on us while we _slept_!"

"Look, that is not—"

"They murdered my _brother_ ; they orphaned his children! Let me _through_!"

"What is going on?"

Athos's quiet, commanding voice sliced through the commotion like a cold blade. Three men simultaneously whirled towards Athos, two of them subconsciously shifting their stance in deference; the third, distressed man, turned fully to confront the captain, a host of strong emotions playing on his rectangular face.

"What's to be done with them?" he demanded loudly, one badly shaking hand shooting towards the captives' tent. "What will you do with them, Athos?"

Athos looked at him coolly, tipping his head to the side as if merely curious. If the men didn't know him as well as they did, any one of them could mistake the glance he threw towards the tent for one of lazy disinterest.

"What we always do," he answered evenly. "We will interrogate them, negotiate for their release, and turn them over to be exchanged for French prisoners."

"And not hold them accountable for what they did?" Maupassant's arms shot open to the sides. "We'll just let it pass? _Four men,_ Athos – not to mention the wounded! Will they not pay?!"

Athos frowned slightly, otherwise, not a strand of hair moving in his impeccable calm. "What do you propose?"

"Propose?" Maupassant seemed perplexed at the question, blinking rapidly under a frown. "I don't - I'm not _proposing_ anything." His gaze wandered over the crowd as if seeking something amidst the men, before turning to settle on Athos again. "Let me see them," he repeated, a touch more plea and less of a demand this time. "I – I'll _ask_ them – Armand – the children - my _godson,_ Athos! - "

" _Henri_."

Athos took two calm steps forward, closing the distance between himself and the agitated man, and spoke, with characteristic quietness, towards Maupassant's ear.

"If that is what you want, I will not deny it to you," he said resolutely, ignoring the flash of surprise that passed through the man's face. "But not now. Now is not the time."

A twitch deep within the creases on Maupassant's brow was the only indication of the effect of Athos's words.

"Why?" he demanded, now holding on to anger with something akin to desperation. "If not now, when?"

Athos leaned a bit closer, one hand reaching to rest softly on the man's shoulder. "After we bury Armand," he replied quietly. "We have a duty to him, Henri. A duty that cannot wait."

Henri Maupassant swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple moving up and down, and under Athos's hand, the shoulders visibly loosened.

"Remember who you are," Athos intoned in that same voice, himself tall and straight-backed, still talking towards Maupassant's ear. "We are King's Musketeers. We follow our orders, and we behave with honour. Even if _they_ don't."

With that, the last vestiges of tension drained from the man's frame, and he nodded heavily, head hanging down, his breaths beginning to hitch. Around them, the musketeers shifted where they stood, their own backs straightening, shoulders locking as if putting up a wall between their grieving comrade and the rest of the world. Athos's hand slid down to clasp Maupassant's arm, and the captain turned his musketeer around, guiding him gently towards the medical tent.

"Come," he commanded to him. "Let us go, and prepare our brother to rest."


	5. (II) A Most Precious Sentiment

* * *

**A Most Precious Sentiment (II/II)**

The rest of the day passed in a flurry of activity as the musketeers prepared to lift the camp and continue on their interrupted march in the morning. The brief service they held for Armand Cormier was a fittingly solemn occurrence, the entire regiment of nearly ninety musketeers standing to attention as their friend was lowered into the grave, next to the other three musketeers laid to rest four days prior. Resolves hardened amidst their sorrow, the men dispersed quietly to finish up their preparations.

Neither d'Artagnan's insistence, nor Porthos's offer to oversee the arrangements had managed to convince Athos to seek rest before sundown. As it was, when the three Inseparables failed to spot their fourth during the evening meal, they gathered their meagre rations on a tray and took themselves to the command tent.

Athos looked up from the report he was writing and acknowledged them with a nod; it seemed to them as if he tried to smile, but one wouldn't answer to his summons. Putting down the quill in his hand, he made room on the table for the tray, and gratefully accepted his share.

"You were right," Aramis murmured to d'Artagnan, his narrowed gaze fixed on Athos as the latter broke off a piece of bread as if even that required too much strength. "He does look half-dead on his feet."

If a glare could look tired, then the one Athos levelled at him was just that. "Have you forgotten all notion of subtlety?"

"My apologies," Aramis said quickly with a hand over his heart, looking slightly abashed at his own poor choice of words. It had been one thing for d'Artagnan to make the remark out of Athos's earshot, and quite another for Aramis to casually repeat it to his friend's face merely hours after a funeral. "The point stands, though, Athos," he still added softly, something in the way his friend looked so spent discomforting him.

Across from the table, Athos's hand stilled half-way to his mouth.

"I am on my feet, at least," he murmured tightly, eyes suddenly dropping to the table.

"Athos-"

Now Aramis thoroughly cursed himself for that lack of tact. He was getting carried away with this near-impertinent lightheartedness - he'd been oddly off-balance since yesterday; the tumultuous conversation with Porthos, this meeting his friends, not in the familiar surroundings of the garrison in Paris to ground him, but in the middle of nowhere and the aftermath of an unexpected attack– it was, for lack of a better word, severely disorientating.

Not enough of an excuse for unbecoming insensitivity, he still thought. Before he could smooth it, though, d'Artagnan rose from the edge of the cot and walked behind Athos's chair to place both hands on his friend's rigid shoulders, exchanging a glance with Porthos as he did. It seemed like a well-practiced one.

"I should have posted guards on the riverside," was all Athos said, his voice the scrunch of dry leaves underfoot.

It was Porthos who rebuked him for the self-recrimination.

"Don' you go about blamin' yourself for this," he warned seriously, almost dangerously as he leaned across the table with a hard look in his eyes. "We had no reason to expect this attack - from the riverside _or_ any other front - an' you already know it. Don' make me repeat it."

Eyes still downcast, Athos gave no indication that he'd heard Porthos's blunt reassurance, but he did tolerate d'Artagnan's surreptitious kneading on his shoulders. Wordlessly, Aramis reached forward to fill his glass from the bottle they had brought.

"Apologies, gentlemen," Athos finally offered, after a full minute of silence, looking up somewhat ruefully. "It appears I am not very good company this evening."

"Rubbish," Porthos waved his hand dismissively as Aramis shook his head. "You need sleep, that's what it is. Eat, an' then off to bed."

An eyebrow rose despite the effort it required; some invisible muscle twitched. "Would that be an order, lieutenant?" came the half-hearted drawl. Porthos shrugged with the air of a man who'd never heard the word 'subordination'.

"Take it 'owever you will."

"The men—"

"—all know we march on first light an' will be ready," Porthos completed, holding Athos's gaze with a determined one of his own.

"The captives–"

"Guard detail is already assigned," d'Artagnan supplied from behind him, "Favray and du Galland are on first watch."

"We will need a scout party to go on ahead," Athos insisted, looking from one of them to the other, managing to finish the sentence this time. "We can't risk another incident like this on the road."

"Should've thought of that," Porthos grumbled. "I'll see to it."

"What would you want me to do?" Aramis inquired quietly, looking to the captain - _his_ captain, he reminded himself - and tired blue eyes travelled to his face.

"Take the evening to settle in, Aramis," Athos suggested softly, reaching forward for the wine glass. "You will find your hands full in no time."

"That, I do not doubt." Then, taking in his friend's expression, he pushed himself to his feet. "Try and stay awake for a few moments?" he requested, and under the others' curious eyes, he turned and exited the tent.

Barely three minutes later, he had returned carrying a small satchel and a sack. "I did come bearing gifts," he explained, careful to keep his face neutral. If the little tokens he'd brought could lift his friends' minds from their present predicament for a few moments –and Aramis knew they would – then he'd be content.

He pulled out a thick deck of what appeared to be letters, unsealed, stacked and bound with a thin blue ribbon. When he looked up at d'Artagnan, the Gascon's hands had frozen on Athos's shoulders, his expression bordering on frightful hope. Aramis smiled slightly, holding out the bunch to him.

"You have a very anxious, and truly formidable wife back home, my friend."

D'Artagnan swallowed, looking at him almost pleadingly. "Constance? You saw her? Aramis—"

"She's perfectly well," Aramis assured him quickly as d'Artagnan moved and snatched the letters like a starving man reaching for a hot meal. He dropped down at the foot of Athos's cot and was already fumbling with the ribbon. "She's very well taken care of in the palace. They couldn't have found a better governess for the dauphin."

_Ah-_

He'd not meant to say that.

His tongue was apparently determined to keep going wayward this evening; he'd not meant to bring up the dauphin – _or_ the queen. The follow-up question came –of course- almost immediately, as if he'd not already caught the lightning-quick glance that flashed between Porthos and Athos.

"You saw them, then?" Porthos queried, if a little bit awkwardly. "The queen and… the dauphin." It was as if he'd hesitated and changed course to not say 'your son'.

Aramis _really_ did not wish to speak of this.

Still, he nodded, if a bit curtly. "I did."

Athos's face was admirably stoic. "Is all well with their royal highnesses?"

And that meant _does any doubt linger on you in people's minds after everything -_ unlike Aramis, Athos was apparently never too tired for tact.

"All seemed well," he affirmed shortly. Not wanting to dwell on it lest the conversation took on a heavier turn none of them could handle just then, he opened the sack he'd brought and fished out several wrapped bundles. He held one out to d'Artagnan who looked up distractedly from the letter he was absorbed in, and others to Athos and Porthos.

"With compliments from Madame d'Artagnan," he added, sitting slowly back down on the stool. He watched as Porthos ripped open the cover and pulled out a piece of folded garment: it was a silk shirt, the fabric itself of the highest quality, the tailoring impeccable from Constance's skilled fingers. The little _fleur-de-lys_ motifs delicately embroidered with silver thread on the collar and cuffs were simply exquisite. One corner of a lip curling up, Porthos made an appreciative sound as he ran a soft hand along the material.

"I'm goin' to give a big kiss to that wife of yours when we get back," he told d'Artagnan amiably, obviously very pleased with his present.

But the Gascon did not even hear him. Holding the parchment close to his face, gripping strongly with both hands, he was devouring Constance's lines as tough he could very well conjure his wife from within the written word; such was the love and yearning on his face. Regarding him, Porthos's expression softened like melting wax; across from the table, Athos's eyes were just as tender on their younger friend.

"Her gifts are very much appreciated," he added sincerely to Porthos's sentiment, the fingers of a hand trailing his own unpacked gift. His gaze, however, slid towards Aramis while he spoke.

The marksman smiled his appreciation for the look. He did not share with his friends the little note he had found in his own bundle, in Constance's hand that simply read ' _from her majesty, the queen_ '. It was a precious secret he would hide deep within his heart, not to be shared even with his friends, that the minuscule threaded flowers and delicate ornaments on his own gift had been by the hands of that incredible woman, Anne d'Autriche, the Queen of France, and the only woman, he knew with unshakable certainty, that would ever occupy his heart.

"Come on then," Porthos called to d'Artagnan as he pushed himself to his feet, carefully re-folding the shirt. "Gather your stuff – you're occupying the captain's cot. You can read your letters some'ere else."

Athos _did_ glare at Porthos properly this time, not appreciating the camouflaged coddling, but Porthos being Porthos, he paid it no heed. He nudged Aramis's foot with his own to get his attention as well.

"You, too. Up. Start earnin' your keep. Help me organize that scout party."

It was definitely an invitation – not a suggestion or instruction – and Aramis felt ridiculously grateful for it. He rose to his feet, only too happy to oblige, and turned, only to come nose to nose with d'Artagnan, who, with the bunch of letters in hand, looked as though he were heartbeats away from crumbling to tears.

" _Thank you,_ " the Gascon said, earnest bright eyes boring into Aramis's. And he couldn't have expressed better how much Constance's letters meant to him, perhaps, except for the embrace he suddenly wrapped the marksman in.

Then, without waiting for a response, d'Artagnan hurried out of the tent.

Porthos, too, had watched him leave, face full of the affection they all felt for the Gascon at that moment. Shaking his head, he turned towards the captain. "Athos…"

A look passed between them: a question and a request in Porthos's face, and Athos acquiesced, his small nod, a promise. Satisfied, Porthos turned and followed d'Artagnan out.

Alone for the moment with Athos, Aramis did not hesitate.

"Porthos is right," he said softly, looking directly into Athos's eyes, determined to clarify what he'd meant to say earlier. "My words lacked due finesse, but I _have_ seen you look better, my friend."

And that was concern, what he'd meant to relay – inexhaustible in Aramis's heart regardless of distance or time – and he needed his friends –his brothers- to know it. With a parting nod, he turned to follow Porthos out of the tent.

"Aramis."

He stopped, one foot already outside, and turned with a questioning look. Athos stood from his chair, approached, and placed both hands on Aramis's arms, sleepless eyes twinkling.

"Welcome back, brother," he said.

And Aramis was certain he had never heard a more precious sentiment in his entire life.


	6. Notions of Honor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear followers, I apologize for not being able to update this story sooner. I've had insanely busy academic term, and this chapter was also particularly difficult to write. If you're here and reading (thank you!), I suspect you may need a refresher: so far, the Musketeer regiment suffered an ambush while marching to Lorraine, burying four of their own. Porthos and others captured two Spaniards; Aramis rejoined the regiment, and our Inseparables reunited after about sixteen months of separation. Now they reach General Toussaine's camp up north, and we find out more (or do we?) about all this Spanish activity in France. Plus, was the rest of the march as uneventful as hoped?

* * *

**Notions of Honour**

****

On the 22nd of September, just as the big, fiery ball of the sun was slipping fast and smooth towards a deceitfully peaceful horizon, the King's Musketeers arrived in General Toussaine's camp at the outskirts of Verdun, some forty miles in from Lorraine's western border. Leaving Porthos and d'Artagnan to co-ordinate with the general's  _aide-de-camp_  to get the regiment settled, Athos asked to be shown to Toussaine's tent without even dismounting from his horse. With so much time lost on the march and so much to report, he was anxious to meet the general without delay. He was led through the camp towards a narrow trek at the foot of a hill, where he dismounted and passed the reins to a lad with a word of thanks.

Coughing dryly in the dust as he walked, Athos threw a glance to the back of the man he was now following, the soldier leading him deftly up a steep path through a sparsely wooded area, toward the large command tent pitched at the peak of the small hill. Walking several paces ahead of Athos, the man did not spare any glances to check whether his charge was keeping up with the gait, and Athos had to give it to him, the man was climbing the slope with the ease of a mountain goat. Athos took the opportunity to survey the plains below. The setting sun had bathed the world in an extraordinary orange glow, basking the entire plateau in a mesmerizing mist. To the right, in east, a thick line of greenery traced the curvy path of the Meuse river. Despite the thousands of army tents, beasts, wagons and artillery pervading the once-sleepy land, nature's beauty seemed adamant at defying men's attempts to ruin it.

As they reached the top of the hill and drew before the general's large, slightly haphazard-looking red tent, Athos's guide finally paused, and threw him a measuring glance as if to gauge how the captain fared. Athos returned the look by mildly lifting an eyebrow. The climb itself hadn't been a challenge -he still had a long while before being bested by a hill, thank you very much- but he could no longer deny the scratch in his throat. The tickle that had been developing there for several days had turned into a harsh, dry cough that was all but harassing him – not that the man before him needed to know. Still, before following him into the tent, Athos paused to clear his airway one last time, wondering, with an unexpected pang of amusement, whether he was turning into his own  _aide-de-camp_.

"General? Captain Athos of the King's Musketeers," the soldier introduced before stepping aside and all but disappearing from sight.

General Guillaume Joseph Honoré de Toussaine, currently sat at a table with his back to the entrance, turned around with thick, dark eyebrows raised. He had a silver spoon in one hand and a white napkin tucked into his collar: they had interrupted his supper. Upon setting eyes on the newcomers, he pushed himself to his feet, wiped his mouth on the napkin and held out a hand to Athos.

"Captain," he greeted, firm, but casual as if they had already met and seen each other not long ago, "We were beginning to fear something nefarious had befallen your company."

"General." Athos blinked –the only sign of his surprise at the unexpected manner of greeting– and shook the proffered hand. "I regret to report we've had an eventful march."

"The Spanish?"

"Yes."

Nodding with the air of a man whose suspicions were confirmed, Toussaine sat back down on the chair.

"Take a seat," he invited, his speech precise and cultured; he reached for a bottle of wine and proceeded to pour two glasses. "You must excuse me for eating while listening to your report; I prefer to save time whenever it can be saved." He pushed one of the glasses towards Athos with such unexpected lack of ceremony, Athos had to frown, doubting, for a second, his own knowledge of Toussaine's illustrious lineage. A man of around fifty-five years of age, the general was short, a full head shorter than Athos; he had a neat, small beard that resembled a whisk broom, and silvery grey eyes that glinted like two shards of a Venetian mirror. His movements were unhurried, but there was a taut air about him, a contained restlessness that made it difficult to fully relax in his presence.

"Have you seen to your men?" he inquired, taking a spoonful from the porcelain bowl. Athos nodded.

"I have, monsieur. I thank you for your foresight in securing provisions for us in the garrison in Metz. The supplies were much needed, since we lost most of our own in an ambush near Bonnecourt."

"Ambush near Bonnecourt?" Toussaine asked, looking up as his spoon slowed down over the soup, "You have suffered casualties?"

"We've lost four men," Athos returned, if a bit stonily. "Another four were wounded, and then, a further three in second attack two days ago." The fingers of his left hand clenched unconsciously at his side, and he forcibly relaxed them.

"A second attack," the general repeated, brows knitting together. Leaving the spoon back into the bowl, he slowly sat back in his chair, and studied Athos with such an intensity, a lesser man would have squirmed. Grey eyes locked to Athos's green, the general curled his fingers around his wine glass and gave a small tilt of his chin.

"You'd better start from the beginning," he said.

So Athos began to recount the tale of what befell the regiment since they'd received their orders nineteen days ago: the ambush in the night, the dead and the wounded, Porthos's mission to clear the area, and the two Spaniards they had captured and brought with them to Lorraine. The customary detachment he displayed while giving his report belied the deep-seated anger the thought of the events still provoked: just the thought of the dead Musketeers was enough to stoke a fire deep within him, a fire that, to an extent, surprised even himself. It wasn't the fact that his comrades had been killed that disturbed him so. It was that they'd been done an injustice. All Musketeers rode to war resigned to the idea of death -death for country, for king, duty and honour- but the four Musketeers - Thévénot, Pinchon, Rimbaud and Cormier - had been robbed of that distinction. Stolen of their chance to die meaningfully.

Athos wanted justice for his men.

Much too past the fire of youth that d'Artagnan still possessed, the anger Athos felt wasn't of the kind to be exhausted in a blaze of battle fury, to be unleashed upon the first Spaniards they happened to come across. No, what Athos needed was to find some kind of meaning in all this. Because without a shred of it to anchor them to sanity, no soldier survived a war at least half-way intact.

And for a start at finding that meaning, he needed to determine whether the attacks they’d suffered were random or not.

"You have my sympathies," the general asserted when Athos reported, upon his prodding, the manner in which the four Musketeers had been murdered. Toussaine sounded sincere enough, as would a man who knew intimately what it was like to lose good men in less than fitting manners. "This second attack," he continued, "Two days ago, you said?"

"Yes."

"Then I assume the messenger we dispatched to warn you of that possibility hasn't reached you in time."

"No, monsieur," Athos replied, frowning as he shook his head, "I fear he's not reached us at all."

"I see," said the general. And conspicuously left it at that.

Confused, Athos frowned even deeper. If Toussaine had sent them a messenger in warning, it meant that he had to have either intelligence or some strong suspicion of an attack on the Musketeers. Did it mean he was also aware of the Spanish activity around Bonnecourt? And if he was, why hadn't he included a warning along with his original orders summoning them to Lorraine?

The news of a lost messenger also confirmed another suspicion Athos had had. Three days ago, as the regiment had approached Metz in the early afternoon, two French soldiers clad in red and blue had ridden out of the city to meet them, showing Athos their orders from General Toussaine to deliver an assorted amount of food and medical supplies to the Musketeers from the garrison in the city. Much surprised and grateful as the regiment were for the relief, it had Athos convinced that there must be something else behind the unexpected aid. Toussaine's forces had faced the Spanish in Metz in a stalemate that had lasted nearly the entire summer; Athos had learned in the garrison that the Spanish troops had only begun to withdraw some twelve days ago. Severe shortages of food and illness had forced the enemy to retreat, but hunger and disease did not discriminate: the French troops in Lorraine fared only marginally better than the Spanish. The fact that supplies had been secured for the Musketeers at such a time like this only served to strengthen Athos's suspicion that their summons to Lorraine entailed a mission of some particular importance. That Toussaine had been aware of a possible attack upon them whilst they entered the region,  _and_ that such an attack had indeed taken place, was now enough to convince him of these thoughts.

While Athos deliberated, the general, too, had assumed the look of a man who was mentally juggling, moving pieces of a puzzle upon a board and making sense of the new patterns created. For a few moments, a distracted silence stretched between captain and general in the tent. Then, Toussaine looked up and nodded at Athos again.

"Carry on, Captain," he entreated, as if he'd not just divulged Athos with a piece of news that begged further explanation. "This second attack. How did that take place?"

"We had just passed through Metz," Athos supplied dutifully, resigned to complete his report before asking his own questions. "Scout parties were sent ahead of the way, as per custom since the ambush. Except, this time, one of the men came back to us in warning…"

_"Athos!"_

_The Musketeer Hubert was galloping at full speed back from the road towards the regiment, one arm hanging by his side, the other hand gripping both the reins and a rapier. Eyes blown wide and breathing heavily, he pulled the reins just he reached Athos at the front of the line._

" _Captain!" he gasped, beads of sweat rolling down his face, "We're under attack!" He listed to one side, and Athos quickly grabbed his arm to keep him from falling._

" _How many?" he demanded, giving the man a shake. An alarming amount of blood was pouring down Hubert's left arm; Athos shook him harder. "Report, Hubert! How many men?"_

" _Twen.. at least twenty - maybe more." He groaned, and folded over himself in the saddle. d'Artagnan spurred his horse on and darted past Athos without waiting for orders; swallowing a curse at the man’s rashness, Athos left the wounded Hubert to the care of others who rushed up front, and rose to his feet in the stirrups to make himself heard._

_"I want fifteen men with me!" he ordered loudly, "Porthos, Aramis - take five men each, check on Perrin and Barteaux. Musketeers, with me!" He kicked his horse to a gallop and shouted over his shoulder, "Duval, take charge! Protect the supplies – powder and ammunition first!"_

_Then, among thundering hooves trampling damp earth and the harsh rustle of leaves in their ears, they rode. Some three hundred meters ahead they heard musket shots and yelling; within minutes, they were engaged in a ferocious battle in the woods._

_Athos barely had time to assess the situation before a man clad in yellow and red descended on him, brandishing a halberd overhead as he closed in with a yell. Without a muscle twitching in his face the captain lifted his pistol and fired, the close shot throwing the man off the saddle. Another man replaced the fallen one almost immediately, Athos drew his sword to meet the onslaught. Steel clashed over steel, and Athos frowned at the sheer force behind the attack; no time for swordplay, no time for delicacy, he pulled his_ main gauche _swifter than the eye could see, and his assailant was gurgling, choking on his own blood before he'd had a chance for a second move._

_Athos jumped down his horse and took cover behind the nearest tree. Drawing his second pistol, he quickly surveyed the scene. Musket fire and pistol shots were exploding one after another, filling the grove they were in with small bursts of smoke; even as Athos took his own aim and fired, he could see that most of the men had already drawn swords, engaged in close-range combat in favor of firearms. All around him Musketeers were fighting off Spanish soldiers who had no apparent strategy to their attack; all Athos could conclude was that they’d prepared for an ambush, not for a swift counter-attack. This was no open-field battle fought through pre-planned strategy, but the Musketeers were only too experienced in fighting off unexpected attacks in the woods. Athos’s eyes quickly scanned the area, looking for Valois, Georgeon and du Galland, the three members of the scout party Hubert was a part of. Were they still alive? Had they been able to hold their own, or were they too quickly overwhelmed?_

_Not ten meters to his right, d’Artagnan was driving a man backwards with a series of lightning-quick strikes; ahead of him, he saw Boutin dropping to one knee with a cry, but managing to bring his sword up to block a zealous thrust. A shot exploded somewhere, a ball whizzed past his ear; Athos twisted around and thrust his sword up purely on instinct, the blade catching a brutal strike meant for his neck. He pushed back aggressively, forcing the man to shift his stance. Using the advantage to adjust his own balance, Athos quickly took on the offensive. The men must be_ tercios _, he thought as he quickly found an opening in the man’s defense; drawing his sword through him, he felt the grim satisfaction of fighting men in uniform. They’d still not been able to determine if the Spaniards near Bonnecourt had been attached to the Spanish army or not._

_Without a second glance at the man he’d just killed, Athos pulled the blade free and whirled around to run to Boutin’s aid. He never saw the wounded Spaniard who scrambled to his feet, a snarl on his bloodied face, no weapons in hand, charging head-first into him._

_"Athos!"_

_He spun on his heel, just glimpsed at the man falling backwards with a dagger to his chest, and whipped around to see d’Artagnan not too far away, pure concentration etched on his face. The breath Athos was releasing got caught in his chest when the man d’Artagnan had been fighting rushed to his feet, and swung the pistol he held upside down with all his strength against the side of the Gascon’s head._

_Before Athos’s eyes, d’Artagnan dropped like a stone to the ground._

_Three second later, the Spaniard was dead, Athos was throwing aside the spent harquebus he’d carried on his back and sprinting to his friend’s side._

_He dropped to his knees, looking around only briefly to make sure they were in the clear, and reached carefully forward to shake the unmoving Gascon’s shoulder. “D’Artagnan,” he called roughly, voice catching in his throat, “D’Artagnan, wake up.”_

_There was no response._

_Athos ripped one hand free of its glove and carefully eased fingers behind d’Artagnan’s head, only for them to come away covered slickly in blood. d’Artagnan’s eyes remained resolutely closed._

_Someone came near and Athos looked up to find Berger easing down to help; loathe as he was to leave his friend’s side, he nodded to Berger and made himself rise. He had nineteen other men to look out for as well._

_The battle was over. No Spaniard remained upright and fighting; Musketeers were slowly gathering on the road, sheathing their weapons, wiping off sweat and blood, some, clutching cuts and bruises. Athos made a quick head count._

_Eighteen men stood upright._

_Two unaccounted for._

_Before he needed to order a search, his eyes spotted them under a tree in the distance._

_Valois was gravely wounded, and one musketeer was helping him._

"Twenty-six _tercios_ ," Toussaine reiterated into the small silence that settled, a slight frown creasing his forehead. But there was an definitive spark in his eyes. “Only three of your men are wounded, and not one dead.”

Athos remained silent, letting the comment hang in the air and speak for itself.

Something that resembled a smile quirked the general’s lips. He grew thoughtful for a few moments, one finger disappearing into his beard and scratching his chin, then he looked up.

“How many men in your regiment are fit to fight?”

“Eighty-six, monsieur,” Athos supplied. “Of the seven injured, four are expected to rejoin the ranks within the week.”

“Good,” Toussaine commented, nodding. _Good for what?_ Athos wondered silently, watching Toussaine closely; the men had yet revealed nothing. “And what of these two captives you’ve brought? Have they said anything of value?”

“Not at first,” Athos replied with a shake of his head. “They were adamant in keeping their silence. We were, however, able to learn some things from them nevertheless.”

_Aramis’s face had twisted into worry before Athos pulled on the reins and helped ease an unconscious d’Artagnan down from the saddle into his friend’s waiting arms. Beside them, the heavily bleeding Valois was undergoing the same process._

_“Fetch Establet,” Athos ordered the nearest man, his voice dangerously tight. Establet was the regiment’s physician. Dismounting from his horse, Athos reached forward, laying a hand on Aramis’s shoulder to get his attention._

_“See to Valois,” he said to him, his tone brooking no argument. But his eyes were soft._

_Loathe as he was to leave d’Artagnan’s side, Aramis didn’t argue. He merely held Athos’s eyes for a moment before turning and quickly walking to where they had laid the wounded man on the ground. Valois was hanging on to consciousness with effort; his eyes heavily-lidded, he was breathing in quick, short gasps. There was much, too much blood around the man’s abdomen._

_"Will he live?" Athos asked without preamble._

_"Hard to tell," Aramis returned without looking up, careful fingers probing tender flesh. "The ball is buried deep. If he survives surgery… he has a chance." Unable to help himself, he glanced over his shoulder to where d’Artagnan lay, before turning questioning eyes back to Athos._

_“Struck from the back,” Athos replied, succinct and toneless. “Establet’s trying to rouse him. Definitely a concussion, but the bleeding’s already slowed.” He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, there was a calculated ruthlessness in them that was frightening to behold._

_"Stay with them."_

_It was only because Aramis was Aramis that he heard the order for what it was: a request shoved into the stiffened mire of command, deep enough to survive the blistering fire that was suddenly ablaze in Athos's eyes. He turned and Aramis watched him walk towards where the captives were held; and God help those two hapless men, for with Athos in this mood, there were simply no guarantees._

_Porthos’s thoughts had turned the same way as Athos’s had: having found both scout parties safe and untroubled by a similar attack, upon their return to the main group, he’d went directly to their two Spanish captives, determined to learn whether they knew anything of this latest attempt on the regiment. Both men had been stubbornly uncooperative thus far, but granted, neither had Aramis and Porthos had much time to properly crack down on them, the relentless pace of the march leaving little opportunity for a concentrated effort._

_He had only just yanked the one called Fuente up to his feet when he heard quickly approaching footsteps, the purposeful stride all too familiar to his ears. He had to move quickly out of the way as Athos walked straight past him and right into Fuente's personal space, forcing the man to stagger until his back collided painfully with the massive old tree just behind. Blinking furiously, the man turned his head aside as Athos inched even closer, the physical proximity between them disturbing just to behold. Porthos didn't bother suppressing a smirk. As rare as Athos employed this strategy, Porthos had yet to see it fail._

_For a maddening full minute, Athos just stood like that, unmoving, slightly leaning forward like a towering column just teasing the eye with its tilt, trapping the Spaniard between himself and the ramrod straight tree behind the man. When he spoke, very quietly towards Fuente's ear, each word was an ice block hewn to precision._

_"Your countrymen are targeting our regiment. Why?"_

_Fuente jammed his lower lip between his teeth as if to prevent himself from speaking, and turned his neck as far as he could to get away from Athos's face._

_Two arms rose, hands coming to rest on the tree trunk on either side of the man, and the Spaniard found himself utterly pinned between Athos and the tree, with no room to even fidget._

_"Answer," Athos prodded towards Fuente's ear. He was impossible to deny._

_"Your regiment is the best in France's armies," Fuente pushed out hastily through clenched teeth, face pulled in a grimace as if the words he uttered were physically paining him. "Every dead Musketeer makes Spain's job easier in this war."_

_"Flattering as that is," Athos deadpanned, "it doesn't explain how you're tracking our movements, why there are such small groups of men scattered in the countryside, or the reason behind this attempt to delay our arrival in Lorraine."_

_“You Frenchmen and your arrogance,” Fuente scowled. “Because I am Spanish you assume I must know everything my fellow countrymen--”_

_“Unfortunately for you, you are all I have at the moment; so cut the nonsense, monsieur, and answer the question.”_

_"Well. That is tough,” Fuente replied smugly, “if the expression is correct." There was a cold hatred in his eyes._

_“Did you know that your countrymen were planning another attack against this regiment?”_

_“I did not.” Nothing but truth there._

_“What do you know of the situation in Lorraine?”_

_“I am done speaking to you,” came the retort in lieu of an answer. Beside them, Porthos heaved out a sigh._

_"One more for the volley, then, Captain?"_

_"Take him," Athos agreed with a nod, somehow managing to stare the taller Spaniard down, although he did not move from his spot to release him. Fuente’s eyes did not leave Athos’s face, but neither the captain nor Porthos missed the man swallow._

_"I do so hate executin' 'em like this," Porthos lamented, shaking his head. "At least you get some exercise out of fightin' them. Shootin' 'em just feels like waste of ammunition."_

_Athos’s brow wrinkled as if troubled by the prospect of causing Porthos an inconvenience. “Do say if you prefer to run him through with a sword?"_

_"Nah," said Porthos after a moment of consideration, "It's more of a chore cleanin' me blade afterwards."_

_"Very well." Athos inclined his head, and took a step back. "Kill the other one as well," he added before turning his back and beginning to walk away. The second Spaniard, Rios, had not understood a word of what had been said, taking his clues instead from the changing expressions on Fuente's face. Catching Athos's dismissive tone, he looked up in alarm from the captain's retreating back to Porthos, who was pulling his pistol free from his belt._

_"Wait. Wait!" Fuente called loudly, sounding more angry than frightened as Porthos yanked him forward by the rope around his wrists. Struggling against the big Musketeer, "Is this your idea of honour?" the Spaniard shouted belligerently, his eyes fixed on Athos's back._

_Already several paces ahead, the captain halted his step, and slowly turned around. Raphaello Fuente was either a very brave man or a very stupid one: he continued, his small, brown eyes meeting Athos's gaze to challenge them. "The day we came to your camp," he snarled, "you told your Musketeer that you behave with honour. 'Even if we don't', you said. You told him you would release us in exchange for French captives; yet now you threaten to execute us - is that your definition of honour?"_

_A threatening growl emanated from the back of Porthos's throat, but Athos's expression did not change. If anything, a grim amusement skittered like a shadow across his eyes._

_"You'd be wise not to test what my definition of honour entails, monsieur," he said with deadly courteousness, “for you would discover how flexible it can be." There was something so profoundly dark beneath his words, for a moment, it was as if a depthless chasm had opened beneath their feet._

_But Fuente, impossibly, responded with a smirk that twisted his lips. His words were dripping with contempt when he spoke._

_"You truly represent your king, do you not, Captain?"_

_Athos blinked, and the grimness fell away to leave only the genuine sentiment. "Come to think of it, our king, from time to time, does adopt a more liberal interpretation as well." He looked to Porthos as if curious about his opinion on the matter._

_Porthos burst out laughing._

_Athos spun on his heel as if he's suddenly lost all interest in Fuente. "Kill them," he repeated to Porthos, sounding bored, and leaving his second-in-charge to deal with the men, he walked away without a backward glance._

_Given leave to do as he pleased, Porthos made a show of lifting and dropping his shoulders to Fuente._

_"Captain's orders," he said, almost apologetic as he pointed the pistol straight at Fuente's chest, but just as the barrel aligned with the man's heart, Porthos continued through the motion and directed the weapon at Rios’s head instead._

_The man scrambled to his feet in full-blown panic._

_"_ No, no - por favor! Por favor, nos van a disparar? Qué están diciendo? No! Qué está pasando?! _" He was gesturing wildly at the nearby Musketeers, desperate for translation._

 _"_ Cállate! _" Fuente snapped, not making to move from his spot before the tree, hands bound at the wrists before him, but his forehead had begun to glisten. His eyes darted sideways, as if calculating the chances of an escape._

 _"_ No, les diré lo que quieren saber! Tengo una familia a la que volver, no quiero morir! Dígales! _"_

_Porthos minutely cocked his head towards his fellow Musketeers, waiting for a translation as well._

_"He says he has a family to return to," supplied one of them. "He doesn't want to die, and he'll tell us what we want to know."_

_"Now, that's more like it," Porthos put, all trace of play-acting vanishing from his face. Fuente turned narrowed eyes to Rios. He didn’t speak a word, but the look in his eyes promised death to the other Spaniard._

"And what did this Rios tell you?"

“Little. But he confirmed that they were paid heftily by a commander in Madrid who went by the name of Salinas, and promised more payment upon their return for infiltrating deep into France, stationing themselves along the main roads and inflicting as much damage upon our troops as they could.”

Athos left his dissatisfaction with that information unvoiced. But General Toussaine was nothing if not fully attentive.

“You seem unconvinced, Captain.”

Athos opened his mouth to share his thoughts, but in a split second decided on a calculated counter-move.

"If I may ask, General," he ventured carefully, "were you aware of the presence of such groups so deep within French territory?"

"Aware, no," Toussaine replied vaguely, with a small jerk of his hand as if he'd not caught how loaded that question was. _Did he just deflect the question, or does that mean he had suspicions anyway?_

“But you have dispatched a messenger to us in warning about a possible attack.” Athos masterfully kept any hint insinuation out of his voice.

“Well, of course,” Toussaine frowned, “Until you reached Lorraine, you wouldn’t have heard that the Spanish had begun to retreat. The region is roaming with enemy soldiers; all French companies entering Lorraine these days are under risk of being targeted.”

It sounded reasonable enough. The Spanish might be in retreat, but they would still try to curb the strengths of any incoming French relief. Athos did not push.

“I have assumed that both attacks were intended to delay our arrival here in Lorraine,” he admitted instead, again, leaving the unvoiced question hanging in the air. But Toussaine said nothing, merely looked at him as if waiting for him to finish all he had to say. Feeling something between frustration and respect for the man’s will, Athos continued. “We were expected to arrive here seven days ago. We’ve lost five days because of the ambush, and two due to the _tercio_ s. Whether the intent was to delay our arrival or to simply do as much damage as they could, I cannot tell, but in either case, I believe our regiment was specifically targeted."

"Why?" Toussaine inquired then, silver eyes watching Athos no less intensely than the green ones scrutinizing him, "What makes you say that?"

"Fuente and Rios were not part of the group that attacked us, so there might be merit in what Rios claims. But if the intent was merely to do damage to France's fighting forces, why sacrifice the lives of nine men when it could be easily avoided? They could have set the camp on fire and run. That deep in the country, we'd assume an accident or look for unlikely culprits; they'd disappear back into the land and we'd be none the wiser. Instead, they mounted a direct attack, with complete disregard to their own lives, obviously seeking to kill as many Musketeers as they could."

"And that is why you think they weren't ordinary soldiers," Toussaine surmised, picking up from where Athos left, "Your average _tercio_ isn’t known to sacrifice himself in so selfless a manner.”

"Precisely, monsieur," Athos affirmed with a curt nod.

"So I see."

Once again, that was all the general had to say. It was almost as if the man spoke in precisely cut halves, first one there, second one always missing. Releasing a long breath through his nose, Athos tried to ease the frustration that was mounting. His head had begun to throb in earnest.

"Was our arrival by the fifteenth in any way crucial to any planned mission?" he tried, his eyebrows raised.

"The date itself is irrelevant," Toussaine replied dismissively, almost distractedly as he lowered himself on the chair again. He paused, looking up at Athos with a slight frown on his brow; his lips parted and Athos thought he was finally going to impart something of importance, but alas, he was to be disappointed.

"Has anything else taken place that needs to mentioned?”

“No, monsieur.” _Was he really being dismissed?_

“Then I thank you for your report, Captain," the general said simply. "Return to your men, and seek your rest. Report back to me after morning muster."

For a second, Athos contemplated objecting.

The one thing he could not stand was being subject to everything from suicidal tactical orders to the nonsensical whims of his superiors. Serving the king's pleasure was inscribed in the definition of being a Musketeer, but being deployed to the front had opened up the chain of command over Athos’s head to include everyone from the king himself down to any illiterate imbecile who'd been promoted to general because they happened to catch the eye of an influential nobleman at the right time.

Not that Toussaine was one such imbecile. No, right now, Athos was thinking more of a mule.

He considered pushing for more information. But wisdom prevailed quickly over his impatience, and he decided to leave it be for the moment. He had gotten the regiment to Lorraine and made his report to the general; until he received his next orders, his duty was complete. Whatever this was, he should leave it in Toussaine's hands.

Well.. For one night, that is.

Food and rest sounded appealing. He would eat and sleep, then, and in the morning, he'd come back refreshed and look anew for some clarity.

He gave the general a slight bow, and bid him good evening before leaving the tent.

* * *

 

He made his way back to the Musketeers on his own, dismissing his presumptuous guide with a nod of thanks. Evening had settled over the camp long before Athos had concluded his meeting with the general; stars now shone brightly in a brilliantly clear indigo-blue sky, while down on the plains, campfires dotted the view, illuminating small clusters of tents in loosely connected spheres of light. There was a sense of calm in the air, a tentative relief in the aftermath of a drawn-out clash; it vibrated in the rumble and clatter of men that seemed almost to emanate from the land.

Desperate for a drink and a bite to eat, Captain Athos finally found his way to his own regiment, making quite conversation with the few men he encountered still sat around campfires, nodding in greeting there, patting a shoulder there as he walked. All seemed to be in order, he nodded approvingly as he passed through the Musketeer guarding the Spaniards Fuente and Rios. He’d had a mind to find an apple somewhere to sustain his stomach when a familiar voice called to him. Athos halted and turned towards the voice. It was his young aide Jean Dupond, holding out a bowl and a spoon in one hand and a piece of what was supposed to be bread in the other. Athos took the warm bowl gratefully and asked to be pointed towards his own tent.

When he found his way there, Aramis and Porthos were sat in a clearing just before the captain’s portable rooms, looking strangely concentrated on cleaning their weapons by the light of a feeble fire. They looked up upon hearing his approach and nodded at him in greeting. Athos returned the gesture, walking into the tent without preamble, knowing they would follow.

Inside, illuminated by a single lantern hanging from the central post, was d'Artagnan, stretched out on the cot on his back, one arm covering his eyes. Athos could see the lines of discomfort creasing the skin around his mouth.

He brushed a hand over the Gascon's shoulder. "How is your head?"

"Mmgh," d'Artagnan mumbled without opening his eyes, "I'd roll my eyes, Athos, but I'm scared I'd throw up on your bed."

"Then pray keep them close until it's safe,” Athos sighed. “I can't tolerate the thought."

"Does that mean I don't have to get up from your cot? Because that sounds very agreeable to me right now."

Athos couldn't help but smile. "Stay where you are," he conceded, moving to pull a low stool and lowering himself down on it. He coughed, ignored it, and looked around for his personal stash; unable to spot it, he looked askance at his two friends. Porthos left the tent with a grunt and Aramis held up his hands in a gesture of supplication.

"There's no need for alarm," he appeased with a slight grin, "it's just outside. We guarded it very carefully."

"You guarded it?" Athos's eyes narrowed distrustfully. "That is like trusting wolves to guard a herd of sheep."

"Athos," Aramis admonished, "is that a proper way of saying 'thank you' to your friends? It'd be ransacked hours ago if it weren't for our constant vigilance."

Untroubled by a concussion of his own, Athos rolled his eyes. Porthos returned with a familiar small wine crate in his arms, quickly procured a cup, filled it and held it out as Athos dug in to his meal.

"So?” Porthos questioned, a serious look on his face as he watched his friend closely, “How did the meetin' with Toussaine go?"

"Unexpectedly unenlightening," Athos replied concisely, swallowing the unidentifiable mass of sustenance in his mouth.

"What does that mean?" d'Artagnan questioned from the cot, obviously puzzled.

"It means, that man can give Tréville a run for his money when it comes to being tight-lipped."

"Funny how many men we know fit that description," Porthos muttered with the corner of his mouth, making Aramis duck his head to hide a smile. Athos's expression remained stony as he took sip from his drink; but the wine burned his throat, sent him into a brief coughing fit, and he steadfastly ignored it.

"Minister, general, captain," he glared at Porthos, sounding only slightly strangled, "You'd better start taking cues."

Porthos snorted. d'Artagnan smiled. Aramis remained silent.

"I’ll report back to the general in the morning," Athos continued resignedly. He could tell his friends of all the things the general hadn't commented on, and all the things Athos suspected but couldn’t confirm, but it seemed pointless, for all the conversation with Toussaine did was to churn already muddy waters. "We should be able to learn more tomorrow," he added instead, meeting his friends' gazes.

"Then tomorrow it is," Aramis acceded readily. A glance passed between him and Porthos, and they both rose to their feet, the intent to retreat for the night clear. No more words needed, Athos raised his cup to them in salutation and thanks.

As Aramis and Porthos turned to leave, d'Artagnan made to rise as if to follow, but shifting quickly to the Gascon's side, Athos pressed a hand on his chest to prevent him. "Stay," he repeated firmly. He pushed d'Artagnan's feet aside to make room, grabbed his cloak to use as a pillow, and lowered himself down, his own legs shooting off the side of the cot to keep clear of d'Artagnan's face. Awkward as the position may be, it felt wonderful to be able to lie down.

He spread the blanket over the both of them, and side by side, musketeer and captain quickly feel into sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Story Notes:**   In the summer of 1636, French and Spanish forces faced each other in Metz, the capital city of Lorraine. There was no real battle; in the end, famine drew the Spanish out of the stalemate. There was indeed a French garrison in the city.
> 
> Tercios were the main organizational unit of the Spanish army, consisting of 3000 men armed with pikes, swords and daggers. If you’re interested, I recommend the relevant page in the WP blog “crossfirearmersfoort” for more information.
> 
> The inspiration behind the Spaniards' interrogation was a scene in Dumas's  _The Three Musketeers: Twenty Years Later_ , where Prince Condé scares a Spanish captive by ordering him to be shot.
> 
> (And kindly excuse the Spanish above. Google Translator's all I had to rely on.)


	7. Aramis's Tale - I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for **extensive descriptions of war-related violence** and **upsetting scenes.  
> **
> 
> This chapter had been extremely difficult to write. I did my best to proof-read but cannot go over it again, as I've mentally exhausted myself and need to step out. Kindly excuse the mistakes.

* * *

**Aramis's Tale - I**

****

* * *

 

At some point in the night, Athos decided that he'd had enough.

  
His attempt at sleep resembled a moth-eaten blanket, filled with so many holes and worn so thin, it was ludicrous to call it sleep anymore. Once again he lost the fight against the scratch in his throat, and coughs, harsh and forceful, ripped from his lips, legs instinctively drawing up as his stomach cramped with the strain. He pressed his face into the pillow, cursing softly.

He would not be getting any rest tonight.

With a sigh, he rolled over and sat up at the edge of the cot. That's when he noticed d'Artagnan had disappeared - odd that he didn't remember him leaving. The headache had dimmed, thankfully, no longer surging from the nape of his neck in sudden waves and growing, like a climbing vine, until it claimed his entire skull and pulsed with the force of a blacksmith's hammer. Rather, it was now a dull and consistent companion to his thoughts, joining forces with everything else that conspired to keep him from his sleep. He could not remember how it felt to get a good night's rest.

He eyed the wine crate at the foot of the cot.

A selfish thought, he knew. So he dismissed it.

Ignoring the constant pressure around his eyes, he bent over to search for his boots. A stroll in the night air might not cure him, but the camp was always a good distraction. Another insidious attack of the accursed cough while pulling on his left boot, and Athos missed the faint swish of the tent's flap, so he started, badly, when he looked up to find a tall dark figure looming over him.

"For Christ's sake," he exhaled, gripping the edge of the cot as his heart resettled into normal rhythm, "What are you doing here?"

"I'd say being a good friend, but scaring you out of your boots kind of put an end to that,” Aramis replied, the apologetic smile evident in his voice. "Sorry about that." He lowered himself onto the stool, straight across from Athos, and held out what appeared to be a large, steaming tankard. Athos automatically reached forward to accept it, frowning questioningly.

"Something to ease that cough," Aramis supplied. The weak light of the lantern was barely sufficient to illuminate the tent, but Athos did not need it to see his friend's expression or to know the kindness in his heart. Trust Aramis to act on the cough. Warmth crept into his chest before he even raised the cup to his lips.

"You have been missed, brother."

And missed sorely; in sharps pangs and brief moments quickly smothered, shoved to the back of his heart to focus on more pressing issues, only to be drilled into deceptive oblivion. But now that Aramis was here, as Athos looked at his friend sitting across from him with that familiar smile on his face, he felt a piece of his heart easily put back together. A ragged hole, sewn close.

 _Fine enough to be the queen's chemise,_ Aramis had joked about his stitching once. Athos would never have considered that his sheer presence might mend a tear in his own heart quite so seamlessly.

"It's good to be here," Aramis returned, the same sentiments threaded through his voice. He nodded a bearded chin towards the tankard in Athos's hand. "Linden tea. It's delicious. Would be even better with a bit of sugar, but alas.. That's a gross luxury these days."

Athos raised an eyebrow at that, wondering, for just a second, whether sugar was not as much of a luxury around Douai as it was everywhere else - even in times of peace - but Aramis's expression, to Athos's surprise, was uncharacteristically closed. Fingers wrapping themselves around the comforting warmth of the cup, he studied his friend for a moment, eyes narrowing at the carefully crafted mask he found concealing Aramis's thoughts, guarding him in a way that was unsettling in its strangeness.

Douai, it appeared, had not granted him the peace that he had sought.

Nearly two weeks since his return into their fold, Aramis had still not shared with them the story behind his decision to return. Granted, the unremitting journey and the perpetual vigilance they had to keep had left them with little opportunity for deep conversation, but Athos couldn't help but feel that his friend was in no hurry to get to that point. He'd spoken little of his time in Douai, if he spoke of it at all. Athos wondered about the circumstances behind the return - especially since Porthos had relayed to him and d’Artagnan what little Aramis had divulged about a raid in Douai - but if Aramis preferred not to speak of it as yet, Athos would not be the one to push him.

That is, of course, unless he had to.

He lowered his head and took a careful sip from the brew. He frowned in surprise to find it impossibly soft: the first swallow immediately eased the knots in his throat; the second sent soothing waves all through his limbs. He looked up at Aramis, unable to restrain the smile that tugged at his lips.

"Thank you," he said heartily.

"You are most welcome, my friend."

They sat there, then, in companionable silence, Athos nursing the tea he cradled in his hands, and Aramis, sitting with elbows on his knees, fingers intertwined, entertaining his own private thoughts. The rustle of the leaves just outside the tent, for once, provided an agreeable background.

Athos had not been anticipating the hacking cough that spiked up his throat with lightning speed when it hit, surprising him enough that the beverage in his hand sloshed a little; releasing the tankard into Aramis's suddenly prying fingers, he turned to the side, forced to lean against the cot with one hand as he waited it out.

It did not last long, but left him aching from one nerve end to the other.

"Why don't you lie down?" Aramis suggested evenly, moving closer, but Athos shook his head, pushing up to straighten himself.

"It’s worse that way."

He took slow, careful breaths, trying to clear his airway and calm the racing of his heart. Thankfully he managed it quickly, and looked up to find Aramis regarding him with a very peculiar look.

_It was time to deflect._

"We know what's keeping me awake," he murmured, eyes on the dark ground. "What about you?"

The hesitation about whether to take the bait lasted barely a second before Aramis acquiesced, handing him back the tankard.

"Sleep, like sugar, is a luxury."

"Hear, hear," Athos murmured wholeheartedly. He took another sip from the tea, thinking it nothing short of miraculous, and reached for his cloak. “It seems neither of us is getting any sleep tonight. We might as well see if we are the only ones.” He rose to walk out of the tent and heard Aramis follow without objection.

“Lead the way, Captain.”

As it happened, they went no further than a few steps before the sought distraction was found. Porthos and d’Artagnan were sat in front of a pleasantly glowing fire, seemingly engrossed in a game of cards. Out of their armours for the first time in days, they appeared so relaxed, it wasn’t difficult to imagine them enjoying well-earned drinks at the much-missed _Wren_. Athos felt some of the tension in his body relax at the sight. After three weeks of sleeping with one eye open in the fields, the relative safety offered by General Toussaine’s camp was nothing short of an indulgence.

Lowering himself on an upturned old crate, he shook his head at his friends in lieu of a greeting.

“One would think it weren’t us who covered thirty leagues in three days getting here.” He raised an eyebrow at d’Artagnan, who was grimacing as he lifted a tankard to his lips identical to the one Athos himself held.

“Look at you two,” Porthos teased, a glint in his eyes as he looked up from his cards, “Not a scratch on either of you for months, and the first glimpse you get of this one,” -he tipped his head towards Aramis- “you both decide to get sick.”

“I got whacked over the head, Porthos,” d’Artagnan objected sourly, “it was hardly a decision I made.” Athos hummed in agreement, but his own stance on the matter got slightly lost when a stray cough burst forth from his lips.

“I’m at a loss as to whether I should feel annoyed or flattered by that,” Aramis declared, amused.

“Flattered, definitely,” Porthos turned to him with a grin, “They’re vying for your attention ‘cos they missed you.”

The sentiment sprung high and hung gloriously free for a moment. For a moment, it was as if nothing had ever been amiss between the two friends. Then, Porthos looked away, gathered his walls around him all but visibly, and scowled as if betrayed by a breach that he himself had caused.

Silence descended over them until d’Artagnan spoke with purposeful levity.

“Did you learn how to make these in the monastery?”

He tipped the top of his cup towards the one in Athos’s hand by way of explanation, and Aramis sat up a bit straighter across the fire.     

“I did. The monastery in Douai - it had a remarkable library. One of the monks, Father Bonnet, for some reason, took an interest in me. He offered to teach what he knew of the arts of healing.” He gave a crooked smile. “I found no reason to refuse.”

“So you left the life of soldiery,” d’Artagnan deduced haltingly, “to pick weeds and study medicine with a monk?” He seemed rather bemused at the thought.

Aramis’s expression darkened. “You wound me, d’Artagnan,” said he solemnly. “They are called ‘herbs’, my carnivorous friend, not weeds; they are very good for your health - and not only when you eat them.”

d’Artagnan leaned towards Athos, unsure of whether he’d just been insulted or not. “What did he just call me?”

The captain snorted inelegantly into his cup. Porthos guffawed in turn and Aramis’s own lips quirked as if already waiting for the motion. The tension around them eased like the slackening of a rope.

“There is surprisingly much to keep a man occupied in a monastery,” Aramis offered then, smiling softly. “Father Bonnet told me he himself had been a soldier once. He was – is,” he corrected himself, “a delightful man. He knows more about healing people than any physician I’ve encountered in court.” His eyes strayed towards the flames as he remembered the kind old man. Of all the people who had lived in the monastery, Father Bonnet was the one person Aramis had come to regard as a close friend.

“I, for one, am grateful for his efforts,” Athos offered, raising his cup slightly in appreciation before draining the final drops in it.

“ _I_ am reserving judgement,” d’Artagnan put in stubbornly - whatever the Gascon was given had to be decidedly less heartening about Aramis’s new skills than the linden tea the captain enjoyed. d’Artagnan grinned sheepishly at Aramis before adding, “No offense, of course.”

“None taken,” Aramis returned with a graceful shake of his head. He looked to the flames again, the smile on his lips gently fading, leaving a strange wistfulness in its wake. “Until I’d settled in Douai,” he muttered, “I’d not realized there was so much time in a day.”

“I thought you just said there’s surprisingly much to do in a monastery,” d’Artagnan pointed out, making Aramis look up again.

“Perhaps I’ve put that wrong,” the marksman conceded. “I didn’t take very well to so much time devoted to contemplation.” He grinned again, but this time it was forced and seemed completely wrong on his face.

“Aramis,” Porthos called, sitting straight and unmoving across from the marksman, staring into his face with an inscrutable look, “What is troublin’ you?”

The question was blunt, but not unkind; impatient, but not for Porthos’s own sake - and daring, as if the question itself was a test. Perhaps it was because of that last part that Aramis answered frankly instead of deflecting the question.

“I’d not expected to leave there the way I did.”

“What ‘ave you learned in that monastery,” Porthos snapped in annoyance, “‘ow to speak in riddles?”

Instead of replying, Aramis pushed himself to his feet. A sigh rolled over his shoulders as he began to pace, a countenance entirely too foreign to the Aramis of old; he moved in slow, heavy steps, with no apparent intention to walk away, but the distance his friends felt to be growing between them was almost a physical one to be measured.

That was when Athos realized that it was no longer a matter of whether the marksman wanted to speak or not. It was apparent that he _needed_ to.

“Aramis,” he called, his tone just the right mix of command and companionship, “come and sit. Tell us what happened.”

Stilling in his steps, Aramis turned to lock his gaze with Athos’s for but a moment, then, he simply walked over and retook his seat. His trust in Athos’s direction was plain for all to see. He pursed his lips, raking a hand through his hair in a familiar gesture of trepidation.

“There was a raid in the monastery,” he confessed quietly, his hands drawing themselves into a lock of fingers as his gaze dropped again.

“When?” Athos prodded. Aramis looked up, and visibly anchored himself to Athos.

“June the 29th. Day of Saint Peter and Saint Paul; just after morning prayers.”

“What happened?” d’Artagnan asked.

Aramis shrugged, hands opening themselves to the sides as he replied, almost matter-of-factly, “A massacre.”

And he began to recount.

* * *

  

* * *

 On the seventeenth day of June, twelve days before that fateful morning in Douai, the brothers had opened the monastery’s gates to a large company of Spanish soldiers commanded by a lieutenant, acquiescing to their almost peaceful demand of shelter until the troops they were to join arrived in Arras from the south. The men had settled into the grounds and mostly kept to themselves, their lieutenant a reasonable, if not necessarily pleasant man. The monks hadn’t had much in terms of provisions to go with, but sharing with the Spanish hadn’t been a particular strain - not that Aramis had been happy with the thought, although he’d known better than to object.

The arrangement had worked smoothly until, just before sunset on the twenty-eighth, the gates were once again heard shaking from their hinges. Pounding fists and cries of desperation accompanied a group of villagers fleeing before a company of pillaging _tercios_ , seeking refuge from the destruction that seemed to follow wherever they went. Men, women and children had run from their homes, carrying what little they could with them, now seeking the protection of the monastery’s strong walls.

If the prospect of entertaining a troop of Spanish soldiers _and_ fleeing French peasants under the same roof presented something of an awkward conundrum for the monks, none of them felt the need to voice that aloud. The atmosphere had suddenly turned tense like the strings of a _viola_ : the peasants were shocked and dismayed to hear they had stumbled upon an entire _troop_ of enemy soldiers when they had been running from a group of twenty vagabonds! Which one was worse? Nobody knew. Some, if only a few brave souls, preferred to turn back and seek other shelter rather than to share the same roof with the Spaniard. But the majority of the people were too tired, too frightened, and too hungry to continue. And so, doing what little he could to assuage their fears, Aramis had helped to settle the families into the monks’ cells, the brothers resorting to sharing rooms until the situation could somehow be resolved.

Fate, however, had different plans.

Following that one long, badly strained night, just after sunrise on the twenty-ninth, hell had broken loose at Douai.

_A single, shrill scream ringing from the courtyard was the first indication that not all was right. The brothers and the orphaned children in their care were just leaving the main chapel when they heard the commotion: more screams followed the first, angry and frightened roars and shouting men, a wailing toddler and all against the background of clattering metal – something dangerous was happening down in the courtyard. The monks froze in their steps, the children instinctively moving closer to each other. Aramis looked to Father Bonnet. Mere hours ago, they had confided in each other about their worries over their predicament; Father Bonnet was convinced that they were being tested by God. Spaniards and French peasants in the same monastery: they might as well be sitting on a barrel of gunpowder waiting to explode - all it would take was a single spark._

_Turning back into the room quickly Aramis looked out of a window. Below, a small group of Spaniards were forcing the beleaguered Frenchmen out of the building and into the yard, dragging the women along as well. Even as Aramis watched one man shoved a young woman a bit too hard and she landed on her knees, one of her entirely too thin arms collapsing under her as she tried to catch herself. Aramis heard her sharp cry of pain, saw her cradle her arm to her chest - if he’d been carrying any sort of weapon on his person, that man would be dead within the second. The poor woman was left on the ground, surrounded by too many men for her to attempt an escape. Cold anger pulsing through his veins, Aramis shifted his attention to the Spaniards. Their apparel was bizarre: they weren’t wearing soldiers’ uniforms, only, each of them had a bright red sash wound around his torso, some at the waist, some at the hip, some across the shoulder like a toga. Were they not soldiers? If yes, why were they out of uniform? And hadn’t the Spanish lieutenant given his word to the abbot last night, however reluctantly, that he would stop his men from approaching the villagers? Had he not agreed to the simple notion that they were all in a house of God and had to behave accordingly?_

_Frown deepening Aramis turned to relay his observation to the abbot, but only caught a glimpse of him before he strode out of the chapel, three other brothers trailing him to the courtyard. Without a thought, Aramis made to follow. The abbot was surely going down to demand an explanation from Spaniards and find out what was going on – that was what Aramis wanted to know too - but a firm hand closed on his arm, stopping him before he could take two steps._

_“Stay,” Father Bonnet simply said._

_Aramis trusted the old man implicitly. After a moment of hesitation, he nodded, and the hand on his arm relaxed. He might not be accompanying the abbot but he wouldn’t stay idle either: the voices from the courtyard were now rising in volume – Aramis doubted that the monks would be left in peace for much longer. Making his decision, he ushered the remaining monks and the four orphaned children out of the chapel, and towards the west wing of the monastery. In case the abbot failed to appease the situation and things got completely out of hand, Aramis wanted the children and the brothers to be the close to the entrance of the hidden passage in an empty room at the end of a second-floor corridor. The abbot, in his wisdom, had trusted Aramis with the knowledge of that passage several months ago, sensing that would anything dire happen within the walls, Aramis would be the one to take charge of everyone’s safety. Now he only prayed that the abbot’s position and authority would be enough to protect him from harm._

_Deciding that it would only seem suspicious if they were all caught lurking at a back part of the building, Aramis steered everyone into an empty room - more of a small open space, like a pocket in the hallway, flanked by two stone pillars forming an archway- and decided to wait for a short while, hoping to ascertain what exactly was going on outside the walls. He had to hang on to some hope that the abbot might prevail and the situation be settled--_

_But even that small hope was short-lived. Pistol shots rent the air, one, two, three times; frantic screams and cries, slightly more distant from this part of the building, escalated to new heights. Blood froze in the everyone’s veins. The brothers flinched and the children huddled together in fear; without even realizing Aramis pulled the youngest of the four, five-year-old Agnés, to himself, covering her ears with his hands._

_Closing his own eyes, he joined his brothers in prayer for safety and endurance._

_What he wouldn’t give to have Porthos here now! What he wouldn’t give for Athos and d’Artagnan – Good God, the four of them could take on the entire company outside, let alone these savages! Would that they were still Les Inseparables!_

_Alas.. Brother Aramis could only do so much on his own._

_Not five minutes later, as the voices had scaled down from hysterical fear to utter grief and despair, they heard approaching footsteps. Signalling the brothers and the children to be quiet and still, Aramis released Agnés and pressed himself against the wall next to one of the pillars. He listened intently. Someone was approaching. A single person, by the sounds it; the steps were slow, uneven, shuffling. Was the person wounded? Was it one of the monks, or the abbot himself? Or was it, perhaps, a stumbling drunk Spaniard – that, too, after all, had been witnessed in the preceding days. With utmost caution to be not be seen, Aramis peered around the pillar to ascertain if it was a friend or foe. When he made out the small, struggling figure that was coming their way, he let go of the breath he’d not realized he’d been holding._

_“Thank God!” Aramis breathed, grasping the old man’s arm to pull him around the corner, “Father Alcés, where are the others? What’s happening out there?”_

_The very elderly Father Alcés was one of the three monks who had accompanied the abbot out to the courtyard._

_But he was as pale as a sheet now, shaking life a leaf under Aramis’s grip. He opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came out; Aramis guided him to the small stone bench before the adjoining wall and waited, if somewhat impatiently, until the old man gathered himself enough to speak._

_“Dead…” Father Alcés stammered when he found his trembling voice, “God have mercy on their souls… They are all dead!”_

_And silent tears streaming down his chiselled cheeks, he began to talk. His frail voice was so soft, the others had to gather around him to hear what he had to say. Father Alcés had found out that an hour before sunrise, a small group of Spaniards - evidently the looters that the villagers had been fleeing from - had come up to the monastery’s gates. He did not know how they could have made their presence known without any of the brothers being alerted to it, but apparently, the Spanish soldiers already lodging on the grounds had found it out, and opened the gates to take in their countrymen as if welcoming guests to a house of their own. For some reason(!), they had not seen it necessary to consult with, or even inform the brothers of the situation._

_Why the newly-arriving men (and were they soldiers or not?) were so intent on pursuing the peasants was a different mystery. They, too, had eschewed the abbot: they’d simply let themselves in and dragged the poor folk out to the courtyard. Father Alcés could barely string the words together as he told them of how the abbot had tried to argue with the invaders, trying to dissuade them from harming the villagers -  but the men were beyond any reasoning, Father Alcés said, with no shred of humanity left to be found in them, and they had – God have mercy on them all! - they had struck down the abbot, and killed Father Gerome and Brother Nicholas in cold blood, without a sign of remorse!_

_And they had turned to the villagers they’d gathered. As their leader stood to one side and watched, the invaders had begun to execute the men, one by one. They’d wrenched the women away among boorish laughter and left the children on their own, to wander among the dead. The last thing Father Alcés saw before retreating from his hidden place under a window was the Spanish lieutenant beginning to argue with the leader of the invaders. The courtyard was left littered with the bodies, awash with the innocents’ blood._

_As Father Alcés drew his account to a close, they could still hear a child wailing in the courtyard._

_Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Aramis could only nod at first._

_There was nothing, then, he could do for those poor souls, for the abbot and the brothers, except to pray. For a second, Aramis felt an irrepressible urge to throw caution to wind, to run down and grab that child that was still crying and hold him tight, sooth him and carry him to safety - but he knew he couldn’t risk it. One thing was clear now: the monastery was overrun. As soon as the two Spanish groups resolved their argument, they would come looking for the brothers - right now, it was Aramis’s duty to save the ones already in his charge._

_He closed his eyes and took a moment to quiet the pounding of his heart. He forced back the threat of tears at the thought of the dead brothers, of those poor women and – God, dear God - the children - and prayed, with all his devotion, to not fail in his own task. Then, he rose from where he was crouched and turned to the brothers. They were watching him with looks of anguish, of anger and resolve in their faces; beside them, the children were standing in a tight group, the older two –eleven year-old François and nine year-old George- shoulder to shoulder, tightly holding the hands of the two little ones, their expressions impossibly brave despite the unbridled fear in their eyes._

_“We are going to get out of there,” Aramis told them – soft; calm and confident like the soldier he used to be in a life he’d renounced, if only for the children’s sake. “I want you all to be as quiet as you can, and follow me.”_

_He exchanged a glance with Father Bonnet. It was comfort to know that he could count on his elderly friend for support - and to take the charge should he fail or fall. As if reading what was crossing Aramis’s mind, Father Bonnet gave him a tiny, encouraging nod. If his heart weren’t constricting in his chest, Aramis would have smiled._

_He then turned and carefully poked his head out of the archway. In the quiet cool of the walls he could hear footsteps in the distance, but listening closely, he determined they were not getting any louder. Deeming it safe for the moment, he gestured for the brothers to quietly get out and start making their way towards the stairs at the end of the corridor._

_One by one they filed out of the room, their flat-bottomed shoes making the softest of shuffling noises on the ground. Walking in a surprisingly orderly line, they made it to the stairs without incident and began to climb. Father Bonnet was leading the way, apparently already knowing where to take them, and Aramis, following the children, was bringing up the rear._

_All was going smoothly until one of the youngsters stepped onto the hem of one of the monks’ habit. The brother stumbled, trying to catch his balance and right himself before he fell - and in a most unfortunate turn of events, a flailing arm crashed into a pitcher and cup that were standing in a niche in the wall, sending them flying into the air. In a heart-stoppingly loud clatter of metal the two vessels flew, tumbled down the steps and rolled through the length of the corridor, ringing, ringing so loudly in the strained silence they might as well have rung the church bells._

_Everybody froze._

_No one dared to take a breath, no one so much as twitched until the echoes faded and died._

_“_ _Qué fue eso? Escuchaste ese ruido?”_

_For the first time in a very long while, Aramis actually cursed._

_“Run!” he snapped, erupting into motion._

_“Hey! Quién es?!”_

_Had the invaders been lurking downstairs, just below them, in the stairway?! Immediately they heard men rushing to climb the steps from the ground floor-- “Go – quickly, quickly!” Aramis urged his flock; picking up the child who had caused the accident, he ran up the steps, small arms wrapping tightly around his neck. Pressing the tiny body against himself, Aramis wowed to not get caught even as he grabbed François’s hand._

_“Alto! STOP!”_

_They could not be seen. They could not be seen! Ahead of them Father Bonnet steered the brothers inside the room with the passage, but a gap had opened between them and Aramis, François, and Father Alcés; they ran with all their might even as clamouring footsteps were heard following them. The men weren’t immediately behind them yet, but it was only a matter of time._

_The problem with their odd mix of a flagging elderly monk, an eleven-year-old boy and an ex-soldier was that everyone ran at a different speed – François ran ahead and Father Alcés fell behind, and in the end, when a single shot was fired from behind them without warning, it was the boy whose scream rent the air._

_“François!”_

_“Stay where you are!”_

_Aramis didn’t even turn to look back. In one swift motion he yanked the worn-out tapestry on the wall, the child in his arms hanging from his neck on her own, and spun on his heel, flinging the heavy wool over the Spaniard who had caught up. The man stumbled, blinded by the cloth over his head; Aramis lunged and wrenched the unsheathed sword from the man’s hand and struck him with all his mind with the hilt. The man went down in a strange, muffled thud and a yell._

_“Good God - François!”_

_Aramis skidded on the floor as he dropped to his knees beside the boy. Little François was lying on the floor, in the middle of the very long corridor, utterly frozen in shock. All colour had gone from his face, his eyes were impossibly wide, yet he didn’t even seem to breathe. The little girl on his neck finally let go as if sensing the urgency of the moment._

_“Let me see, let me see…”_

_Muttering frantically Aramis reached down, hands hovering over the bleeding hole in the boy’s thigh. Dear God – was it the ball that was so big or was it the leg that was so small?! It was bleeding freely onto the floor, far too swiftly, and too slickly! – Aramis snatched the coarse belt around his waist and wrapped it over the wound, pulling on tightly. That seemed to bring the boy out of his shock: a second, pain-filled scream flew from his throat. In a moment of utter desperation Aramis pulled him to his chest, holding him tightly to himself, his lips planting a kiss onto the boy’s unruly curls – would that he could take all these children away from the way! He straightened again, gathering the boy into his arms; he could hear more men closing in, they had maybe seconds, maybe not even that – he lunged towards the door without any conscious thoughts left in his mind. Their fate was in God’s hands._

_It was almost too big of a shock when he managed to cross the threshold and dive into the room. The brothers, George and Agnés were lingering just within the passage, Father Bonnet waiting anxiously at the front. Wasting no time or breath for explanations Aramis urged the little girl on and deposited François into Father Bonnet’s arms._

_“Go,” he instructed, no more precious seconds left for anything more. He shut the door close on them, pulled down the dusty old curtain over the entrance, and then, utterly spent, he sagged against the wall to await his fate._

_In his time of need, God granted him time for his heartbeat to cease thumping so wildly against his chest. He granted the time for Aramis to even make it out of the room and back into the corridor, where he rested his back against a far wall to draw attention away from the room. He stood as if he were cornered, with nowhere to go. Then – and only then - the first of their pursuers rounded a corner and came into his view._

_A pistol was pointed his way, the barrel trained on him as if its owder already knew where his target was. The trigger was snatched with no hesitation, no warning or a threat; Aramis’s brain barely registered what he was seeing before he was flung back against the wall. Breath stuttered in his throat, just until it erupted into a sharp cry of pain: his left shoulder felt if a hot poker was being drawn through his flesh. He did not hear the men approach; did not hear the clatter of the spent pistol being thrown aside; before he knew what was happening, kicks and fists were raining down, and it was all he could do to draw himself into a ball._

_“Enough,” called a voice, half exasperation and half boredom. The pounding reluctantly ceased._

_“Look at me, brother.”_

_Aramis couldn’t comply even if he wanted to._

_The pain was unbearable; almost more than he could take. A whimper escaped Aramis’s lips as he tried to uncoil from the ball he’d curled into. Out of sheer instinct he’d kept one hand clamped onto the wound, but it was already too slick, already difficult to maintain his hold: a sharp tremor began to spread through his limbs, making it impossible to keep still or to concentrate. His head was spinning._

_“Look here,” the Spaniard called again, with a touch of impatience this time. As the haze of agony slowly dissipated, Aramis looked up, only to see Father Alcés held in a tight grip against the leader of the Spaniards. A thin dagger was pressed against the old man’s throat, the Spaniard’s expression utterly uncaring, almost bored. Aramis opened his mouth to speak, to plead with the man if necessary, but before he could get his breath to cooperate, the blade was drawn against skin in one fluid motion, and the arm keeping the father upright released its grip._

_“NO!” Aramis roared, choking on his breath._

_No! - it was too sudden, too abrupt, too insensible! – tears sprung to his eyes as he watched the old man drop to his knees, eyes widened in utter surprise, before he fell, gracelessly, face-first onto the ground. Aramis watched as Father Alcés’s blood spilled over the ancient stones, rushing to form sickening rivulets between the blocks, seeping into the indentations on centuries-old masonry._

_Aramis lifted burning eyes to the Spaniard, teeth clenched, gaze smouldering._

_“You will suffer for this.”_

_Surprise_ _coloured_ _the man’s murky brown eyes. He regarded Aramis’s seething face for a moment, an unreadable look on his own face, then, simply turned his back._

_“Take him to one of the smaller chapels. Stand guard – I don’t want him trying anything. Make sure he doesn’t die of blood loss.” He threw a dispassionate glance over his shoulder. “Not until he makes me money, anyway.” Then he simply strode away._

_Aramis fought hard against the hands that clamped down on his arms. The musket wound was near-forgotten in his rage; he kicked and pushed with all his diminished strength until one of his captors drew back an arm and slammed his fist onto the bleeding shoulder. Aramis howled._

_Bile_ _rose in his throat with frightening speed as his vision faltered. For a second he thought he might actually faint. When he managed to peer through pain-wrung eyes, the sadistic bastard was grinning, entirely too pleased with himself._

_They dragged him back through the length of the corridor, muttering curses under their breaths as Aramis continued to fight them. Instead of taking him to a chapel, they pushed and dragged him into one of the lower storerooms and shoved him inside, uncaring that he landed hard on his knees and promptly fell on his face when the injured arm failed to catch his weight._

_Before he could recover enough to right himself, the men had_ _left, and shut the door close_ _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t necessarily have in mind the monastery shown in S3 as the monastery in Douai. I failed to even locate the original building, let alone do research about it. I imagine it to be bigger and more ancient than the one we see in Series 3, hence Barroso and his men getting in without the brothers even noticing.
> 
> I'd never written anything quite this dark before, and I'm disturbed by it. In the end I didn't pull back or edit to scale things back because of one single reason: writing this episode reminded me that such horrors of war are not a thing of the past. They are happening in certain parts of the world even as we speak. If Aramis has strayed a bit out of character in the process, I fear I'm no longer capable of judging it. Kindly go with it.


	8. Aramis's Tale - II

* * *

**Aramis's Tale - II**

****

~*~

Silence descended over the campfire as Aramis paused in his tale.

The crackling of the fire was bold and cheeky against the depth of the night. An odd contrast to the dryness of that storeroom in Douai - he could still hear the  _thud!_  of that heavy old door as if he were back in the monastery. He took a long, deep breath of the crisp autumn air. It felt good to be outside tonight.

Aramis had never been a stranger to involuntary confinement. He'd been taken hostage, restrained, and held against his will several times in his career; sometimes on his own, sometimes with comrades. Being locked in a monastery storeroom was nothing for a man who'd been thrown into the Chatelet and awaited the most dishonourable of deaths. But even then, the wreckage left in Douai, the cooling bodies of the men in the courtyard, the women wrenched away, the children left alone - the utter  _pointlessness_  of it all - had been almost too bitter to swallow.

He looked up in surprise when he felt someone leaning into his personal space, only to find d'Artagnan pouring ale from an earthen jug into a cup Aramis had no idea how he'd come to hold. He smiled as he nodded in thanks. He'd not noticed when the ale had been procured or when he'd drunk his fill. He turned his gaze to his friends.

Understanding was all there was on the  _Inseparables_ ' faces.

They had not asked him any questions. They had not interrupted him, simply listened as he'd talked at his own pace, no need to control or restrain himself, no need to hide anything or put up a front. These were the only men in the world with whom he could enjoy such precious liberty. And that was why it tore him up on the inside that there were parts of this tale that he simply could not share.

To his own ears, what he was telling them sounded valid enough: a tragedy difficult enough to make any man re-think the course of his life. But in the end, it was still a typical story from the hell that was war: with all its senseless brutality, it was the type of tale he'd heard –  _they_ had heard - too many times from seasoned soldiers. That was precisely why Aramis knew it wouldn't be enough for his friends. These men – Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan – they knew him perhaps better than he knew himself; so why, wouldn't they be wondering, was Douai different than what Aramis had already seen, already shared with them? Why was this pivotal for the man who had survived, both in body and mind, the massacre at Savoy?

What a comfort it was to know they wouldn't push! Because Aramis dreaded having to put into words what he knew with unshakable certainty: he had returned, because he had been afraid.

* * *

  _"Despiértate."_

He awoke to a rude nudge on his leg. Blinking his eyes open, he tried to push up from where he was slumped against the wall, groaning pitifully when fire erupted in his arm at the pressure. Biting hard enough on his lip to draw blood, he righted himself as best as he could, and raised his head to see what had awoken him.

The leader of the invaders was standing over him, a blaring torch in one hand, looking down at Aramis with open interest. He was a stout man, his build almost a square; over a mismatched assortment of garments he'd wrapped his broad red sash, the pride in his nationality difficult to miss. Beyond the interest in that ugly face, Aramis glimpsed a calculation happening behind the mud-brown eyes. The man, however, was keeping his silence, so Aramis took the opportunity to take stock of his ills.

The pain in his shoulder had withdrawn to a tender ache. Patches of dried blood pulled against his skin with the slightest of movements. Soon after he'd been locked into the room, he had been given strips of linen and a bottle of wine; he'd cleaned the wound as best as he could and bandaged it, relieved to find that it had been a through-and-through. He was bruised from head to toe, various aches and pains all over slowly awakening to claim his attention, but they were the last of his worries now. For how long had he been unconscious – half an hour? Three? He threw a glance at the high window on the opposite wall. The sky was a mere patch of blue beyond the tiny wooden frame: he guessed it was, perhaps, an hour before noon. Had Father Bonnet and the children made it? Had they found safety, or were they too cut down, mercilessly and without second thought, like poor Father Alcés was?

Was François still alive?

His gaze wandered back to the Spaniard.

"I will kill you," Aramis declared, simply and sincerely.

The man's eyes narrowed. He scrutinized Aramis for a very long moment, then, sharply broke eye-contact and looked around himself as if searching for something. The room they were in was tiny, more of a closet than an actual storeroom: it had only two barrels in it, one upright and one fallen, and a few empty crates ensconced in a milk-white basket of cobwebs. Taking a single step back, he resorted to leaning against the upright barrel.

"I am Menuel Barroso," he offered, with such casual civility, one would think he weren't the same man who'd orchestrated a massacre just a few hours earlier. "What is your name, brother?"

There was an odd glint in his eye when he said the word 'brother'.

"Aramis," the once-marksman supplied without reservation. He had no interest in conversation, but as a man of honour, he wouldn't deny his name to a man who would soon be dead by his hand.

Barroso nodded. "I'll give you a choice," he announced, regarding him as if gauging Aramis's worthiness before making his offer. "I need men who can yield a sword, and you, my friend, are hiding a soldier under that garb. I have no doubts about that." He leaned forward, brown eyes boring into Aramis's tired ones. "Your ransom is set at four hundred livres. Can you pay?"

When Aramis chose not to reply, Barroso nodded in satisfaction. "Until you can, you will join us and fight for the imperial army. Or, I will kill you here and now." With deliberately drawn-out motions he unsheathed his sword, the shrill scrape of metal against leather echoing coldly on the stone walls.

"I'll pass," Aramis returned, his eyes fixed on Barroso's. The man clacked his tongue, clearly displeased with the answer.

"Look," he implored, "killing you is going to be a waste. It's a waste of a fighter and ransom money for me, and it's a waste of your life. Now, I know which weighs more heavily in my mind, but surely you see the stupidity in turning down my offer."

Aramis retained his silence. Under the present circumstances, how did one answer that reasoning, anyway, without admitting to stupidity? Barroso huffed.

"Come now," he snapped, throwing a hand in the air, "what will you be dead for if I cut you down right there? You're being an idiot!"

"I will not betray my king and my country," Aramis returned resolutely, eyes straying from the man towards the opposite wall.

"King and country, eh? You only prove what you won't say out loud." Slowly, Barroso shifted to the side and lowered himself onto the fallen barrel, now nearly at eye level with Aramis. "Your mother or your father?"

Aramis dragged his gaze back to his captor. "Excuse me?"

"The Spanish one. Which parent of yours?" The man's frown deepened when Aramis, once again, chose not to comment. "Grandparents, then. Let me guess. Burghers in a frontier region, perhaps in the south, or the east. An arranged marriage, between, say, business partners. The new family settles in French territory, and the grandchildren... you... fancy yourself French without giving it a thought."

Well.

Cruel as he may be, Barroso was an intelligent man. Then again, Aramis himself didn't need much intelligence to see where the conversation was headed.

"So you are as much a Spaniard in blood as you are French," Barroso surmised, watchful eyes not missing the surprise that had flashed momentarily in Aramis's eyes, "and a Catholic to boot. Why should it be difficult to become Spanish when you're already halfway there?"

"You're asking me to be a traitor so that I might save my own skin."

Barroso blinked, perplexed. "Do you truly value your life so little?" His small, muddy eyes were watching Aramis like a hawk, and now, with a touch of curiosity. "Alright," he conceded, "then explain to me this treason you talk about. Because,  _theoretically,_ " he emphasized with an almost impatient gesture of a hand, "I, a Spanish man, can as much brand you a traitor to your own blood as your French countrymen would."

Aramis didn't bother pointing out the flaw in that logic. "By your reckoning," he returned instead, "a man born to a French and a Spanish parent is a traitor either way."

"You call it treason," Barroso corrected, pointing a finger at him, "I call it opportunity."

Aramis sighed, dropping his head back against the wall. "You make me think of an old friend. He would have taught you a lesson on the concept of honour."

"Concept of honour!" Barrosso began to laugh as though he'd never expected to hear such a thing. "I like that very much. Honour! That is fancy talk for idiocy, brother Aramis, nothing more." He paused to regard him, the traces of mirth on his face twisting into something resembling - dare Aramis think it - pity. "You think yourself an honourable man, do you? I am sorry,  _mi amigo_ , but you are but an idiot. A man who's throwing away his life for something no one will ever know."

"I don't care what you think of me," Aramis deadpanned. He was too tired and sore to carry on this dangerous conversation.

Shifting his weight with care, he turned until his good shoulder rested perpendicular to the wall, deliberately facing away from Barroso. A sense of warning was nudging him now, alerting him to be wary; despite his fatigued mind's efforts to not engage in a battle of wits, Barroso's conversation had, unfortunately, managed to draw him in.

For Aramis, being a Frenchman had been a choice, conscious or not, made by his parents. He had never had occasion to question or change it. But at this moment in time, as he sat prisoner in this tiny room speaking with a Spaniard in a tongue as fluent as the man's own, could Aramis really tell what made him more French than Spanish?

Past allegiances?

He knew he shouldn't question it, but were past allegiances still strong enough to form the crust of his identity? Such a question would never cross his mind had he not found his loyalties already challenged by circumstance more than once this past year. He had found himself reluctant to accept the abbot's decision to aid the Spanish troops, despite knowing full well the brothers had had little choice in the matter. Up in the monastery in Douai, it had quickly become clear to Aramis that the need for survival always had precedence over any sense of loyalty to the French crown. If the abbot refused lending aid to the Spanish and their allies, the men simply took what they wanted by force – the cooling bodies strewn across the courtyard somewhere above his head were proof enough that even when the brothers cooperated, to be left in peace was a tenuous hope at best.

Aramis had always known this to be the reality of monks. But until he'd decided to become one himself, he'd only ever had the soldier's – sympathetic - perspective. And had he still been clad in the Musketeer uniform, he would certainly not be contemplating Barroso's words as he was – the weight of the  _fleur-de-lys_  on his shoulder would have firmly prevented it.

But over the months of solitude within these walls, Aramis had reflected long and deep about his life. In order to be able to cleanse himself he'd prodded and poked his own heart and mind in a way he'd never done before. Freed from the weight of duty to the crown, his thoughts had strayed, sometimes with bitterness, to the numerous less-than-kingly deeds and attributes of King Louis. Aramis missed the life of soldiery more than he could tell; he missed his three friends with an ache that was, at times, too sharp to quell. But if he were honest with himself, he never necessarily felt the call of duty to the crown, as, for instance, Athos might have done.

And so for Brother Aramis of Douai monastery, neither a French musketeer anymore, nor still a proper monk, living in a frontier zone between the two countries, the line in between appeared less solid, less distant when it had never even been in his sight before. Was there no truth in Barroso's words?

In the past year, all Aramis had seen was people switching sides, as frequently as battles were pitched, won and lost. He could not, for all he might, fault them for trying to survive.

He could not fault Barroso for his expectation.

"Tell me," the man pressed, cutting into Aramis's thoughts, "Why did you decide to become a monk? You pledged your life to God when you entered the monastery. So what makes you still loyal to Louis?"

Aramis couldn't help it. "Can't I be loyal to both my God and my king?"

"Your king is betraying your God by siding with the Protestants."

"The king is watching out for the good of his country."

"Is he now?"

Was he, indeed? A treacherous voice in Aramis's head was asking now, why, why was he arguing Louis's case? Barroso was right: Louis would care little that Father Alcés, Father Gerome, Father Bruil and Brother Nicholas, along with all those innocents, now lay dead, slaughtered by a band of vagabonds. He had cared little when several months ago Father Gerome had personally travelled to Paris to petition the king for protection. Barroso was  _right_ : France was allying with the Swedish and Dutch to fight against the Holy Roman Empire, which was trying to unite the regions under the true Christian faith. Aramis was on his way to become a Catholic monk. Where was the sense in that?

It was, ironically, Barroso who gave him the answer.

"You've fooled yourself into thinking you're a monk. You preach the God Almighty above, and yet, bound at the feet of your enemy, you speak like a Musketeer-" Aramis's heart skipped a beat "-blindly loyal to their witless king. You may have fooled yourself and the brothers here, but you don't fool me. You're a soldier through and through, and a loyal one at that."

With that, he picked up the sword from where he held it loosely at the side, and without ceremony, brought the tip down to Aramis's throat. Even as Aramis looked, all interest drained from the man's face, leaving a cold, detached look in its stead.

"I might as well dispose of you," Barroso muttered dispassionately. "With no money to buy your freedom, you'll only be a burden to me." He gazed down at Aramis for a moment, lips curling in distaste. "What a fraud."

It stung. It stung more than Aramis would care to admit to be called a fraud, even if by a man like Barroso. With a trepidation he didn't expect, he slid his gaze through the length of the metal, looking down towards the tip that disappeared beneath his chin, ready to pierce his windpipe with the smallest push. He closed his eyes.

The last thing that crossed his mind was an echo of Barroso's words.

_What was he dying for now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I.** During the Thirty Years War, men of religion were among the primary targets for soldiers and mercenaries to take prisoner and extract ransom money. So much so that when priests needed to venture out, they resorted to changing their clothes and hiding any visible sign that would give away their vocation. I completely made up the amount of ransom Barroso demands, though - have no clue if it's within an acceptable range.
> 
>  **II.** Barroso apparently means 'muddy'.


	9. Aramis's Tale - III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A short chapter to tidy up Aramis's tale - this was going to be another long one, but I wanted to post something on my birthday. Enjoy._

* * *

**Aramis's Tale - III**

****

~*~

_Barroso picked up the sword from where he held it loosely at the side, and without ceremony, brought the tip down to Aramis's throat._

_"I might as well dispose of you," he muttered dispassionately. "With no money to buy your freedom, you'll only be a burden to me." He gazed down at Aramis for a moment, his lips curling in distaste. "What a fraud."_

_It stung. It stung more than Aramis would care to admit to be called a fraud, even if by a man like Barroso. With a trepidation he didn't expect, he slid his gaze through the length of the metal, looking down towards the tip that disappeared beneath his chin, ready to pierce his windpipe with the smallest push. He closed his eyes._

_The last thing that crossed his mind was an echo of Barroso's words._

_What was he dying for now?_

* * *

 The minutes that followed were a blur in his memory. In a split second the soldier's instincts had taken over and Aramis remembered kicking out with all his strength, a sickening crack and a howl of pain as his foot contacted with Barroso's shin, the sword in his hand flying into the air; for the life of him he couldn't recall the series of movements that had followed but somehow he'd ended up with Barroso's sword in his hand and the man flat on his back on the ground, staring up at him in complete shock. Frankly, the whole thing had felt almost natural.

After that, it had taken some imaginative threatening on Aramis's part to ensure Barroso's cooperation. He'd forced the man to stick his head out of the door and order the Spaniards on that floor away, clearing at least some part of the way to the second-floor passage. He'd not had much of a plan. He hadn't really dared to hope he would make it out alive – with such ruthless men surrounding him, he hadn't dared hope that even Manuel Barroso, the leader of this murdering mob, would be enough of a bargaining chip. Instead, he'd done what he had always done: he'd improvised. Trusted his instincts, put his faith in God and gone with the flow.

It had been exhilarating.

"How did you get to the second floor? Didn't Barroso try to raise alarm?"

"He would have," Aramis smirked a bit, "but he couldn't; not with his own ugly sword pricking his side." He took a sip of ale. "I did run into a Spaniard just when I reached the stairs. But would you believe it - he took one long, hard look at us, then turned and went on his way as if nothing was amiss."

"You're kidding.”

"He jus' went on his way?" Porthos asked in disbelief. Aramis nodded.

"I like to think he didn't approve of what was going on around him. Since no one came running after me until I reached the passage, he must have kept his silence."

"Good Catholic," Porthos commented approvingly. "What happened next?"

Next, Aramis had procured a length of rope to secure Barroso's hands and gagged him. Then, trying to ignore the wound on his shoulder while he'd pushed and dragged the man along, he'd navigated the corridors and the stairscase up to the second floor. He could hear the Spanish raiders making their way in the compound, going from room to room, sacking; he'd seen upturned trunks, cabinets and cupboards ransacked, sacred relics thrown to the ground as if pieces of trash. He'd even glimpsed two men working with the tips of their daggers to remove plates of gold gilding from the chaphel walls - it had been a sickening thing to watch.

He'd reached the passage without trouble, found the hidden entrance as innocuous as he'd left it, and felt his hopes renewed for Father Bonnet and the others' safety. Then, it took him several hours to navigate the passage, follow the trail Father Bonnet had left for him and reach a hut that was securely snuggled within the forest that lay just to the east of the monastery. The sun was well on its way to setting and gloomy shadows had long claimed the woods for themselves.

"Several hours alone with that man, and you were wounded," d'Artagnan pointed out, eyes narrowed as he clearly wondered how Aramis had managed to control Barroso under those circumstances.

"I'm pretty certain I'd cracked his shin. Hands bound and badly limping, he didn't give me too much trouble."

"Of course he didn't," Athos murmured softly, a hint of a smile in his voice. "What then?"

Then, feeling his entire body shaking with exhaustion, Aramis had leaned against the hut's wall for support, raised his free hand and knocked on the door.

 _The door opened slowly, hesitantly, rusty hinges creaking as if themselves afraid of the noise._   _A pair of huge, pale blue eyes peered through the opening, a gaunt face emerging from the darkness behind. A frail, elderly woman looked Aramis up and down._

_"Good evening, madame," Aramis said, exhaustion forcing a tremor onto his voice, and not noticing the woman flinch when she spied the gagged Spaniard he was holding by the collar. "My name is—"_

_"Aramis! Aramis has come!"_

_The door was yanked open and something got tangled around Aramis's legs; it took a second to realize that it was Agnés hugging him with her tiny arms. That brought out a grin Aramis couldn't have prevented even if he'd tried._

_"Hello, ma petite."_

_Looking up again he saw one of the brothers come up behind the old woman, a smile spreading to the young man's face upon seeing the newcomer. Brother Bazin was the most easily frightened person Aramis had ever met – not a very desirable trait under the circumstances! - but seeing the man alive and unharmed was more than enough for the moment._

_"Bazin," he greeted, his tone surprisingly sharper than he'd intended, "Where are the others? Is everyone safe?"_

_"We are, thank God, Brother Aramis," Bazin replied, his smile slowly fading as he took in Aramis's bedraggled appearance, "Only myself, Father Bonnet and the children -except Marie- are here. The others have gone on to the Béthune monastery; Father Ferrand said we would find sanctuary there. They will be awaiting us."_

_"Good," Aramis breathed, "Good… Thank God." The weight of the worry that dislodged from his chest was so sharp, it could have thrown him off-balance. "François?"_

_"Father Bonnet has been tending him," Bazin answered softly. His tone, however, was far from being reassuring. Before Aramis could utter a word Bazin blanched, his eyes widerning even as he took a step back; Aramis sharply turned, expecting to see Spaniards having caught up with them, but it was only Barroso that Bazin was looking at - still gagged, hands bound, breathing heavily where he had collapsed at Aramis's feet. Aramis pushed himself off the wall, strengthening his grip on the man's collar._

_"Bazin, I am going to leave this man here and I am going to need you to guard him." Without waiting for an answer he pushed Barroso's own sword into Bazin's hand and gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Don't get too close to him, do not speak to him; just make sure he stays put. I need to see the others."_

_"B-but, brother–!"_

_"Madame," Aramis politely turned to the speechless old woman, "I'm sorry to trouble you, but do you have a length of rope I can use? I need to make sure this man doesn't pose a threat to anyone."_

_Aramis had no idea that at that moment, doing a soldier's bidding with a bloodied monk's habit on his back and gentlemanly words on his lips, he was the perfect embodiment of an oxymoron._

_"I'll find rope!"_

_Agnés ran back inside as if the hut were her very own house, and the old woman, after a few moments of hesitation, nodded and followed the little girl in. Aramis took the opportunity to rest his back against the wall, one eye always on Barroso, simply trying to keep himself upwards. It was all he could do to not groan. There wasn't a single spot in his body that wasn't hurting and his shoulder was killing him._

_"Here."_

_Starting a bit, he turned to see Agnés holding out a coil of rope. Taking it, he dragged the Spaniard none-too-gently to the nearest tree and bound him securely against the trunk. He gave Bazin's shoulder a squeeze before turning to walk into the hut. He had to see for himself how - how François fared._

_Inside the single room of the old woman's house, Father Bonnet was sitting on a chair next to a narrow bed. At the foot of the bed sat George, cross-legged and head bowed down, praying upon a rosary. Agnés silently went to sit down on the floor at Father Bonnet's feet, back against the wall, little legs outstretched._

_His own legs suddenly stiff like two wooden posts, Aramis approached the bed._

He had to pause and close his eyes for a moment. He had to press two fingers on his eyes as a wave of emotion surged in frightening speed; François’s face was floating before his eyes, as clear as if he were back in that hut. A hand landed on his shoulder, silent and heavy - Porthos or d'Artagnan, he did not know.

_François._

Children were always the hardest to lose. But ever since learning of the dauphin it had been different for Aramis; ever since stepping inside the monastery, the children there had been an endless source of fascination to him. Far too many times he'd find himself watching them and imagining his own son growing up, thinking how he would be when he reached Agnés's age, what sort of mischief he'd get into when he was as tall as George; if he would be as cosseted as King Louis or as imaginative -Aramis liked to think- as himself when getting in and out of trouble. While minding the children, Aramis had found a safe haven in which he could just, simply, dream.

As he'd stood looking down at François's still form in that tiny hut in the woods, he'd felt as if a part of his soul had broken apart and tumbled down into a deep, dark void.

_"Aramis, thank God," Father Bonnet exclaimed, rising to his feet and rushing embrace his friend. Aramis barely felt the pressure on his wounds; couldn't lift his arms to return the hug. He only turned his eyes to Father Bonnet, his lips flatly refusing to voice the question he wanted to ask, but the wetness shimmering in Father Bonnet's eyes was all the answer he needed._

_A small 'ah!' flew his lips as something shattered inside Aramis's heart._

_He might have broken down right then. Allowed himself to collapse, or moved to sit at the edge of the bed to join the others' vigil; held on until – until the boy passed and then wept for his young friend. But he didn't. Instead, he turned to the frost that had been claiming his insides since the second he'd laid eyes on François._

_Barroso._

_The man who had too much blood on his hands. Whether it had been him who'd pulled the trigger that had shot François was of no consequence._

_His eyes caught sight of a rusty old sword resting against the wall. Had it been placed there for him, for this purpose? - he walked to it in two calm strides, took it and walked back outside. In swift, measured strides he reached the tree and undid the rope binding the man to the trunk. Bazin's eyes were as large as saucers as he watched in silent shock._

_Aramis took Barroso's sword from Bazin and shoved it into the Spaniard's chest._

_"Defend yourself," he merely said quietly. The words were might have been sharper than either of their blades._

_If Barrosso was confused, regaining hold of a weapon seemed to help diffuse it. He rubbed at his wrists, limping as he slowly walked to counter Aramis's stance._

_"Hypocrite," he spat, raising his sword with a hateful glint in his eyes._

_"That is for God to decide," Aramis countered with dangerous calm, "But I am no executioner."_

_Then, they fought._

_It was a short duel; fierce and determined. Injuries and exhaustion crippled both men: one, a rampaging murderer who'd shed blood merely hours ago; the other, a former Musketeer who hadn't wielded a sword for longer than a year. Barroso was violent and graceless; Aramis, precise and deadly._

_"What did I promise you?" he asked as he had Barroso down to one knee._

_"A monk keeping his promise to kill," Barroso growled, a sneer baring his bloodied teeth. "How_ honourable  _of you."_

_Then, it was only two thrusts and one parry before the tip of his blade pierced Barroso's heart._

He'd stood there, panting, staring down at the body of that poor excuse of a human being and felt his stomach coil. Satisfaction had come, slowly and surely, but not nearly as fulfilling as one would hope for, and fading even before his breathing had slowed down. His eyes had slid close and he'd sagged down to the ground.

_Father Bonnet's hands on his back, on his arm, pulling him to his feet and guiding him inside._

_Being pushed down, the scraping sound of wicker on hard ground._

_Water to his lips. A mixture of voices floating around his head, and then - sizzling pain jolting him upright. Gentle pressure on his good shoulder, a hot dagger being run through his other one: Father Bonnet treating the bullet wound. He was fairly certain he'd managed not to cry out._

_Then?_

_Oblivion._

* * *

"François died two days later. I stayed with them for the burial, then took off for Paris. The rest, you already know."

Silence engulfed the Musketeers' little camp as Aramis finished his tale. Their small fire was crackling, sprouting merry little sparks as it burned, the flames dancing, elongating towards the sky as if to reach the very stars.

Aramis did not share with his friends the day and nights he'd spent in fervent prayer, feeling more lost than he had ever felt in his life as he's begged for guidance and for forgiveness, all the while pleading desperately for François's life. He did not tell Porthos that he'd once caught himself on the verge of making another oath, in return for the child's survival, but stopped short and broken into tears. He did not tell d'Artagnan how badly he had longed then, just for one night, to be in Paris and with them, and how he'd nearly drowned in guilt for needing his old life with such desperation.

Nor could he tell Athos how badly he had floundered in his loyalties. He had never –  _could_ never – seriously contemplate switching sides, but would Athos, the most loyal and honourable man Aramis had ever known, understand why he could not put Barroso's words out of his mind? Would he forgive Aramis for his doubts about the justness of Louis's cause? Or accept that only after having made his decision to return that he'd been able to stop questioning it?

Soldiery was what Aramis knew. Soldiery, Aramis confined himself to. Until he'd stepped out of the uniform, he had not realized the strange ease of mind that came with submitting himself to one's command.

God forgive him for not feeling the same whilst in Douai.

"The monastery," Porthos asked, his gravelly voice sanding the hard silence, "is it under protection now?"

It wasn't. "Tréville promised to send an armed guard as soon as he could." Aramis left his dissatisfaction unvoiced. They all knew that Tréville would do his best, but sparing men and arms for a remote monastery, when merely weeks ago the Spanish had begun forcing the gates of Paris itself, was not a realistic expectation.

"So they're out there, waiting for the next raid, with no means to defend themselves," d'Artagnan put sourly.

"The only way to defend them is to fight and end this war."

"Be that is it may," Aramis acquiesced to Athos, pushing himself to his feet as he glanced sadly at his friend, "I just wonder what will be the point of it if they don't survive to see the end."

There was nothing left to say. With a parting look at his friends, Aramis rose and walked away to seek refuge in his tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Please don't be shy - drop a comment, if only to let me know you've read it. It takes very little to make a writer's day. :)_


	10. A Mission of Great Importance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since plot progression (sorry). It might help to peruse Chapter 6 before reading this one to brush up on some points. Enjoy.

* * *

**A Mission of Great Importance**

****

**~ * ~**

"Captain?"

"Get d'Artagnan and Aramis."

"Yes, sir."

"We have our orders?" Porthos asked as he fell into step with Athos towards the latter's tent.

"We do." Without slowing his stride, Athos pushed through the flap and made straight for the desk. Flicking open a wooden box, he pulled out a rolled map and laid it out on the table. "Move that lantern closer?" he asked distractedly. In the flickering light held above his shoulder, Porthos observed the pooled shadows under his friend's eyes before turning his attention to the map.

Athos unerringly placed a finger down on Verdun, their current location, and drew an angled line to the west, coming to stop on Paris. He tapped once, twice, three times on the tiny drawing of the city; then slid his finger further down, stopped and pushed back up to Paris, only to draw thoughtful circles around the capital's walls.

Porthos frowned.

"Don' tell me we're goin' to Paris."

"Eventually," came the typically cryptic reply.

"Yeah? How 'bout elaboratin'?"

But Athos's attention was once again on the map.

"Cardinal-Infante's forces are stationed here, in Compiégne." His finger slid over the parchment with a harsh, secretive rustle. "In south, General Beaufort's forces are keeping the enemy at bay, but barely. In east," the finger jerked to the right, "Spaniards roam along the main roads, as we already know." He paused, creases increasing at the corners of his eyes. "Right now, Paris is only secure from one direction: the west."

"Alrigh'.. What are we doin' about it?"

Athos finally looked up at that and a tiny wry smile graced his lips - but it was there-and-gone in the blink of an eye.

"Orders were delivered to Toussaine after we set out for Lorraine. Tréville is ordering the regiment to return towards Paris. We’re tasked with clearing the main roads from enemy threats in all three directions of the city; after that, we – that is, the four of us – are expected to report to Tréville in the Louvre."

"Clearin' roads," Porthos repeated, frowning, "We're bein' pulled from the front to go clear roads _?_ Why aren't the King's Guard doin' it?" He seemed almost offended at the idea.

"Their ranks have been severely depleted." It had been Athos’s first question, too, when the general had laid out to him their mission some twenty minutes ago. "The Comte de Martha was slain at Corbie last month, along with two-thirds of his men. They were at the Somme."

Porthos swore.

Athos could relate to the sentiment. The Musketeers and the King's Guard had always been on friendly terms, the two regiments sharing not only the duty of guarding the king and the queen but also a strong disdain for the Red Guard. When Tréville had disbanded the Cardinal's regiment mere days after receiving the seal, the Musketeers and the Guards had celebrated together in a night of uproarious fun; outrageous stories of duels and brawls, shamelessly distorted to improbable proportions, had flown in the air, over quieter recollections of more bitter encounters. Even the Comte de Martha, captain of the King's Guard and a good friend of Tréville's for many years, had briefly joined in; he'd shaken Athos's hand and congratulated him on his promotion, wishing him good luck. No doubt the news of the regiment's misfortune would be a blow to the Musketeers' already low morale, and Athos was not looking forward to the task of relaying it to them.

As Aramis and d'Artagnan arrived in the tent, he briefly summarized the contents of Tréville's orders for them.

"We depart tomorrow at first light. The men are to be divided into units and stationed along the roads as we proceed. Tréville is expecting us by October 8th at the latest."

"October 8th," Aramis repeated with a slight frown, "That's the day before the festival of Saint-Denis. Are we to take up our original duties of protecting the royals?"

"I do not think so,” Athos returned, slowly shaking his head. He looked at each of his friends and continued cautiously. "From what I could gather, the King's Guard is all but out of the picture. That leaves only the Swiss guard in the palace to protect the king and the queen, but I do not think Tréville would let any time pass before allocating capable men to supply the guards. Neither would he call us from the front to compensate for it."

"Alright. Why call us to Paris, then?"

d'Artagnan, too, was frowning as he crossed his arms and leaned against the post near the tent's flap. He was subconsciously mirroring Athos's customary posture. "You said we are tasked with clearing the roads. So, what? Is there to be some kind of royal visit?"

"That would be my guess," the captain affirmed, although with a good deal of caution.

"Isn't the timin' a bit off, though? Tréville couldn't persuade Louis to leave for Fontainebleau when them Spanish were bangin' on the city's gates. So why leave now? An' to where?"

"If there is to be a visit," Aramis mused from his perch at the edge of the wooden chest, "it may be for someone other than the king or the queen. It may be for a visit  _to_  Paris rather than from it." He scratched his chin as he thought for a moment. "The date is interesting though. October 8th - why would we be expected specifically for the festival if not to guard the king and the queen during the celebrations?"

"What - only the four of us?" d'Artagnan seemed rather dubious of that. "As much as I like to think we're pretty good at protecting the king and the queen, I don't think the rest of the regiment would be left waiting along the roads if that were the case, do you?"

"Gentlemen, perhaps it would be best," Athos inserted slowly, looking from one of his friends to the other, "if we avoided drawing conclusions. No doubt Tréville will enlighten us when we get to Paris."

"Well, I'm not objecting to  _that_ ," d'Artagnan suddenly grinned.

"An' to be fair, we didn't draw much of a conclusion," Porthos mumbled, swiping a hand against his mouth as if to disguise his words, "More like speculatin', if you 'ave to put a name to it."

Aramis nearly beamed.

"Allow me to rephrase," the captain glared at his lieutenant, "Let us be wary of  _speculating._ "

"Inferences allowed?"

"By all means." Crossing his arms across the chest, Athos leaned sideways into the post and looked to Aramis expectantly.

"Oh." The marksman blinked. "Well, later, perhaps. When we have more facts to base our… inferences upon."

"Eloquently put," Athos deadpanned.

"Got one question, though." Porthos was suddenly serious again. "Why didn't Toussaine send a messenger after us to redirect the regiment towards Paris? Why make us come all the way to Lorraine, only to send us back-tracking half the distance we came?"

"The orders arrived too late after we set out on the road.” It was another question Athos, too, had posed. "By the time a second messenger would reach us, we'd already have passed the crossroads at Troyes. There would have been no point." But as soon as the words left his lips, his expression softened, and his face clouded over with some sudden thought. "The irony of it," he continued quietly, "is that we were so delayed at Bonnecourt, that if a messenger were dispatched, he _would_  reach us in time. And yet, after Bonnecourt, we needed the provisions Toussaine had allocated to us anyhow."

"Fine definition of irony, indeed," Aramis acknowledged quietly with a nod. d'Artagnan was shaking his head, but Porthos’s reaction was an unexpected snort – unexpected, and surprisingly bitter.

"A bloody  _parody_ of irony," he corrected the statement, looking forcefully from Aramis to Athos. "If a messenger were sent and did reach us in time, we might 'ave avoided the attack outside Metz."

Athos inclined his head to accede the point, but even as he did, he caught something lurking in Porthos's eyes – something that snuck cold fingers into his ribcage and brushed up against his heart. "Porthos?"

"Hubert came from the garrison in Metz just after sunrise." Porthos looked straight to Athos now. "Valois is dead."

It took an effort for Athos to not outwardly react.

His right hand rose and the fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword. "Hubert?"

"Well enough. Says he's fit for duty."

"Is he?"

Porthos shrugged.

And Athos suddenly felt acutely aware of the weight of his many sleepless nights clinging to his shoulders and pulling him down like a rain-drenched cloak.

How many more ambushes did they have to suffer before the regiment thinned down to a joke of what it once was?

He closed his eyes briefly, releasing a long breath through his nose to alleviate some of the tension that constricted his chest. He wasn't given to such pointless pessimism; he wasn't given to self-doubt in matters of a military nature. He didn't question himself or his decisions - those crippling doubts were firmly restricted to his personal life. He had a duty to uphold. Tréville had dumped it onto him months ago and the war had left him no time to question his worth or willingness for it. From the depths of the darkness behind his eyes the memory of an oath he had made many years ago glided to the surface, landing softly on his thoughts.

 _"Don’t worry, Captain,"_  he had said, standing before Tréville's desk in the office at the garrison in Paris, as Tréville had finally approved his application for a place in the Musketeers.  _"I shall not disappoint. If there is one thing I can be trusted with, it is to uphold my duty."_

The truth of that statement had seared his own insides. He had turned and left without waiting for a response, and sought the nearest tavern not to celebrate, but to douse the raging fires of bitterness and regret.

He now vaguely wondered whether some small part of him resented Tréville for holding him to his promise like that.

But if it did… what right did Athos have for that?

"Start the preparations," he said to Porthos, resolving to just get on with it. He’d barely dozed in the few hours after Aramis's tale last night. He hadn't been able to extract nearly as much information as he had hoped from General Toussaine, and now, yet another one of the King's Musketeers was dead, killed not on some battlefront, but in the gloom of an old oak grove. What could Athos do but press on? "Let the men know we'll be leaving tomorrow at sunrise,” he continued, “then I'll need your input in assigning them to their units. Aramis, check on the wounded. I'll need a detailed report on each of them; I need to know they are ready for this mission. d'Artagnan- the artillery. We need to reassess the state of our weaponry after the latest attacks. Prepare a list of what we need and I will see if Toussaine can spare us anything before we depart."

"What about the captives, Fuente and Rios?"

"Toussaine's aide has orders to take them over. They will be exchanged with French prisoners along with the Spaniards already here in the camp."

"So we're doin' nothin' about the bastards that attacked us in Bonnecourt?"

Athos let silence cascade and settle as an answer to that.

"I said it before an’ I’m sayin' it again - it ain't right. We should investigate."

For his own part, Athos agreed. If only Tréville were here and he -Athos- weren’t captain, he and his friends would have already left to investigate - of that he had no doubt. But as it was, his hands were bound. Being made captain of the regiment had not brought him the measure of freedom Tréville had enjoyed as the head of the garrison in Paris. Not that it had ever crossed Athos’s mind to measure himself up to Tréville; he only ever sought to not disappoint the man. But from the moment the additional notch had been etched onto his pauldron Athos had been restricted by the firm lines the war generals had entrapped him in, and it had taken him and his friends only a few short weeks to truly appreciate the latitude Tréville had always granted them.

There was one silver lining to be found. Tréville’s latest orders were coming directly from Louis; for the first time in eighteen months the Musketeers were once again answerable directly and solely to the king. Athos held on to that fact. It made him feel a little more like a Musketeer and less of a common soldier again, and that was a small comfort he would not begrudge himself.

“Athos?"

"Hm?"

"Did the general ever say why we were summoned to Lorraine in the first place?"

Looking up, he was surprised to see that Aramis and Porthos had already left and d'Artagnan was watching him intently from his spot near the flap. He hesitated.

He’d been insistent on getting that answer out of Toussaine. After subjecting him to another one of those intense, silver-eyed scrutinies that no doubt sent his own men scurrying, the general had, somewhat surprisingly, capitulated.

_"As you must know, Captain," Toussaine began, folding his hands before him upon the desk, "in the last year, one of the biggest problems we've faced has been the small-scale attacks the Spanish carry in residential areas along our northern regions. They put loyal French citizens to the sword, take whatever they find and burn the crops, leaving behind wreckage beyond repair. The number of villages already erased from that map-" he nodded his chin to a half-rolled parchment on his desk "-has already passed a dozen. It has become too frequent an occurrence that our troops marching to the front find garrisons, towns and villages looted, razed and burned to the ground."_

_Athos’s eyes narrowed. “How would the Musketeers come into this?"_

_"You would return the courtesy in kind.” Toussaine looked at him with a face that appeared as though it were carved out of stone. "The Spanish send small units of well-trained men into strategic spots along our borders. These men don't linger, Captain: the attacks they carry out are swift, well-planned and extremely destructive." He shook his head. "While we struggle to recruit, train and discipline our infantry, the King's Musketeers are one of the very few regiments we have that have the experience and efficiency to ever hope of counter-acting this strategy. It was my design to ask you to put together units consisting of the best of your men, and move across the border to carry out similar attacks." He paused, then gave Athos as impenetrable look. "An odd coincidence that Minister Tréville's orders are not entirely dissimilar, only oriented towards Paris instead of the north."_

_Odd coincidence, indeed. Did Toussaine know more about the reasons behind this mission than he was letting on? Or was he merely passing on information, his remark a casual observation? Whether along the northern border under Toussaine's command or around Paris under Tréville's, there was clearly a design to reallocate the Musketeers from the battlefront for more specific missions._

_More surprising was the pang of disappointment Athos felt somewhere in his belly. He would have been interested to hear more of Toussaine's plans._

"Athos?"

He was startled out of his thoughts when d'Artagnan called his name, a hint of unexpected concern colouring his voice. Athos looked up, curious to see what had caused it and simultaneously became aware of his own body weight unevenly distributed as he'd somehow leaned back into the post as if to keep himself upright.

"Forgive me," he said, pushing himself off. "You were saying?"

"I asked if the general told you why we were summoned to Lorraine."

"He did not." He turned his back to the Gascon and busied himself with papers on the desk.

He’d never been under the illusion that he could protect his comrades from the hazards of war. They were soldiers - the best of the best - and knew exactly what was expected of them. And yet, ever since he'd been entrusted with the responsibility of the regiment, Athos had found himself doing all he could to protect his men in whatever ways he could. Whether it be from indigestion because of spoiled food, from boredom in unending stretches of days as they waited for orders, or from disappointment because of a worthy mission they wouldn't be undertaking, Athos strove to spare them whatever minor annoyance he could. What was the point of sharing an aborted mission with d'Artagnan when he knew the Gascon would be just as, if not even more keenly disappointed than himself? Toussaine's plan, when Athos thought about it, was exactly the kind of mission d'Artagnan would have loved, and no doubt, excelled at.

No. There was no point in telling him or anyone else.

Feeling the younger man's gaze boring into his back, he took a breath to dismiss him, but the cough he'd not realized that had left him alone for most of the morning chose that moment to return. Air crashed into a phantom obstacle on its way down and suddenly he was coughing again; two long strides, and a hand curled around his shoulder, another gripping his elbow; unable to help it, he sagged a little against the desk. His throat was trying to scrape itself raw; his hands curled into fists as irritation began to rise - wouldn't this thing _cease_ already? _–_ and he allowed d'Artagnan to guide him down to sit on the stool.

The Gascon's frown was deep, his eyes filled with concern as he crouched alongside his friend, not letting go of the arm.

"It can't be good you're getting worse this quickly," he muttered worriedly.

"I'm fine." It would've been more convincing if he hadn't spoken through clenched teeth.

"I'll send Aramis." d'Artagnan rose to his feet and walked to the flap, only to stop there and turn to his friend again. "Athos?"

"What?"

"This probably won't make the slightest difference but I'll say it anyway. Don't be stubborn? Do whatever Aramis says – drink whatever he gives you, and _rest._ We need our captain healthy, you know."

Athos could not help but raise an eyebrow at that. "Coming from you, that is an odd request."

"Yes, well. You weren't the one that was given that foul thing he made me drink last night."

"I'd rather meant the stubbornness," the captain admitted drily, waving a hand, "but your point is noted."

"I do so love it when you listen to me," d'Artagnan muttered, only the smallest touch of sarcasm lacing the evident despair. He turned and left with a swish of the flap.

Athos would have smiled if it weren’t busy trying to suppress the waves rising from his chest. Regardless of whether the Gascon knew it or not, he would always listen to d'Artagnan.

He would never not listen.

* * *

 The next morning, he sat on his regal black steed and observed the men as they prepared to depart.

The ground was damp from a recent rain shower dumped by a grumpy cloud as it had trudged by. A crisp morning breeze lifted the smell of horse muck and trampled grass from under the horses’ hooves. Beneath him, Athos’s stallion nighed and shifted, eager to get moving; Athos reached down a hand absently and patted at the animal's neck.

“How is the mood among the men?” he asked in an undertone as Porthos pulled himself up on his mount next to him. The larger man appeared to have a permanent scowl set on his face.

“Mixed,” Porthos returned. “Mostly they’re as confused as you an’ me. They’ll get the job done.”

“I know,” Athos nodded. As Porthos manoeuvred away, he cast a quick glance up to the pale blue sky. For all the promise of a good start to the day all Athos could feel was an odd sense of foreboding churning inside him like a thick grey fume. And beside him, Aramis seemed to notice.

"What's on your mind?" the marksman inquired, his voice pitched low so as to not to be overheard by anyone. Athos cast him a sideways glance before yielding without a fight.

"The attacks on the regiment," he murmured, his lips barely moving. His face was stoic, but under the brim of his hat his eyes were as restless as the horse under his legs. “Something’s not right about all this, Aramis. I can’t put a finger on what.” His eyes were trailing the two Spaniards being led away by Toussaine’s _aide-de-camp_.

Aramis frowned, surprised to hear his friend speak so frankly about his disquiet. “You said you were satisfied with Toussaine’s explanation of the latest attack,” he pointed out.

“It is not the second attack that worries me, but the first.” Wrenching his gaze from the departing men, Athos turned troubled eyes to Aramis. “Rios said the men were promised payment upon returning to Madrid. The men in Bonnecourt didn’t care about payment; they fought to their deaths. Toussaine insists there was nothing time-sensitive about our arrival in Lorraine and I believe him; but that means the first attack could not have anything to do with our journey to Lorraine.”

“You’re convinced that the two attacks on the regiment were not connected…”

“Which is not surprising, considering that Fuente and Rios knew nothing about the second group of men Porthos had been trailing when he encountered you in the forest. It only confirms that France is swarming with Spaniards at the moment and we have no way of telling which group intends to do what.”

“You think the regiment will be targeted again?”

“Do you not?”

Aramis’s brow creased, and a strange concern spiked in his chest - not at the possibility that Spaniards might be targeting the regiment, but at Athos’s uncharacteristic unease at the prospect. “My friend,” he said softly, shifting his horse even closer and dropping his voice to a pitch for Athos’s ears only, “what is it that troubles you so? It is not like you to doubt yourself – or us.”

“It is not doubt,” Athos returned silently, shaking his head as he averted Aramis’s gaze. But he did not elaborate.

Watching him carefully, Aramis made a mental note to keep an even closer eye on his friend. He had no doubt that the cough Athos had taken up and the resulting lack of sleep were feeding into this strange mood; he would start a stronger treatment for the cough and put a quick stop to it, if he could help it.

He also knew better than to be vocal about such things. “What about Toussaine?” he inquired instead. “You must have shared your concerns with him. What did he have to say?”

“Toussaine.” Athos made a derisive sound that vaguely called to mind a sneezing cat. “If we had more time I’d let d’Artagnan loose on him and be done with it.”

Aramis chuckled. Giving him a wan smile, Athos turned his horse around to face the men.

“Gentlemen,” he called, his voice, while noticeably hoarse, still loud enough for every man to hear and respond. A practised quiet fell over the field as the Musketeers pulled themselves up on their saddles to listen to their captain.

"I am aware,” Athos began, “that some of you may think this mission is like a page out of our old days. I am aware that some of you may think this almost a respite from the war. And I am aware that we are all excited at the prospect of returning home to Paris."

He paused, his eyes raking over the men and taking in the involuntary smiles and grins already showing up on some of those faces at the mere mention of home. At the very front of the line and very close to the captain was d’Artagnan, his own expression solemn, his dark eyes fixed firmly on Athos’s face. It was only Aramis, however, who saw the minute contractions in the lines around Athos’s eyes as he spoke, and only Aramis who noticed how tightly his fist was clenched around the reins as he pushed down an already brewing riot of coughs. There was no scenario in which the men didn’t notice how poorly their captain must be feeling - and no scenario in which they would respond with anything but worry and support. And still, their full attention was fixed on Athos. The captain continued.

“That is not the case. Gentlemen, we are _not_ going home. I would remind you that Paris is no less of a battleground that Milan or Verdun; the roads we are ordered to secure, no less fraught with danger than the ones we already traversed. Take caution. Take care." His eyes roamed over the men to take in their hardened expressions. "And if the Spanish do have a bulls-eye on our back, then let us show them they chose the worthiest of targets to take down!"

A dark cheer rose to the sky upon his words.

As he spurred his horse on and led his men out of General Toussaine’s camp, Athos swore to himself that he would not lose one more man to yet another ambush on the road.

Later on, he would remember that promise not with a little amount of bitterness and regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Comte de Martha was indeed the Captain of the King’s Guard, and was killed while fighting against the Spanish crossing the river Somme in August 1636. As mentioned before, the French defence failed and the Spanish entered Corbie to advance further south towards Paris.  
> \- Historically, it was not Tréville but Cardinal Richelieu who tried to persuade Louis XIII to leave Paris for Fontainebleau when the Spanish reached Compiégne. Louis indeed refused.  
> \- Particularly in 1636, but also throughout the war, the Spanish carried out frequent “lightning attacks” into the border regions of France, destabilizing the country and particularly disturbing economic life. France’s troops were younger and superior in size in comparison to Spain, but whereas the Spanish tercios were already thought to be unbeatable, France’s armies, as Toussaine says, had the disadvantage of being inexperienced and having a lack of training.


	11. Civilization While You Can - I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second part of the chapter might be posted sooner than you'd expect from me. I decided to keep the chapters shorter in favor of updating just a little more frequently (at least here on AO3). Hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Civilization While You Can (I/II)**

 

Paris had never seemed as bleak, as unwelcoming and ugly as it did the day d'Artagnan rode his horse through Saint-Honoré and entered the city for the first time in seventeen months.

The rain was incessant, the clouds overhead constantly grumbling as the two musketeers rode through the recently renovated western gate. The last time d’Artagnan had been here, it had been still under construction and causing much inconvenience to travellers coming to the city from Rouen and Le Havre; those within the walls had quickly learned to avoid it and revert to _Porte_ _Gaillon_ instead. Today, d’Artagnan was merely grateful for the shelter it provided, however brief it might be. He shrugged his pauldron to the guards who asked his business in the city, then guided the horses towards the single torch beneath the arched passage opening to the paved square beyond. The horses’ hooves echoed coldly within the stone enclosure sheltering them from the rain - so different from the muffled thumping on soft earth or the squelching of mud. Stone buildings and paved roads – two glorious signs of civilization – and what a relief it was. Under the shimmering light of the high torch on the wall d’Artagnan turned and looked to his companion. The Musketeer Favray was slumped forward in his saddle, a hunched, misshapen shape under the large black cape he donned, his face, utterly drained of colour, hidden under the wide brim of his hat. d’Artagnan reached out and shook the man’s shoulder.

“Favray? Are you awake?”

“Hmm,” the man groaned.

“You need to hold on a bit longer, alright? We’ve at Saint-Honoré already. We’ll reach the garrison soon.”

“Lad,” Favray huffed, raising his head just a little with enormous effort, “I have no intention.. of dying in Paris. Didn’t I... tell you that before?”

d’Artagnan grinned as he patted the man’s back. He took up the second set of reins along with his own and guided them both out of the gate, and took an immediate right towards the Seine. Following the western wall of the _Jardins des Tuileries_ and then the quay, they crossed the _Pont Royal_ down to Saint-Germaine. The route down _Rue-des-Saint-Péres_ and _Rue de Grenelles_ took them straight to the small square of _Croix-Rouge_ , and from there, it was a matter of turning a corner into _Rue Vieux-Colombier_ where, fifteen minutes after their brief rest at Saint-Honoré, the two riders found themselves looking upon the glorious sight of the entrance to the Musketeer garrison.

A few steps within that familiar arched gate, two men with blue bands around their arms stood guard. They traced the approach of the newcomers with narrowed eyes, but wisely refrained from asking d'Artagnan their business. The Gascon would have offered them a grin; put on a friendly "no need for alarm" face, but he could not bother. He was exhausted, drenched, and starving. He offered a nod to the man on his right and rode through the gate with the self-assurance of one who was returning to his family home. As the guards approached with identical, slightly unsure frowns on their faces, d’Artagnan touched a finger to his hat.

"Afternoon," he said briefly, holding the thoroughly unresponsive Favray on his horse, "give him a hand, would you?"

The man on the left blinked, then walked over, a tentativeness to his steps, and reached up to catch Favray's unconscious weight as d'Artagnan tipped the man down. Once Favray was securely propped up by the man d'Artagnan dismounted and rushed to help him. A stable boy had already materialised to care for the horses.

"Help me carry him to the infirmary," d’Artagnan grunted, slinging Favray's arm over his shoulder, "and send for a physician."

“Here, let me take him, sir." Another young man approached unexpectedly, gesturing towards Favray - _Sir - really?_ \- d'Artagnan allowed him to take Favray's weight in his stead, frowning as he stood to take in the two men now supporting the unconscious musketeer. Somewhat belatedly, he guessed that they must be Musketeer cadets.

As Favray was taken to the infirmary, d'Artagnan turned and looked to the second guard waiting aside with an uncertain expression on his face.

"Send word to the palace," he told him, taking off his hat and raking a hand through his hair. He regretted it immediately as he remembered how filthy it was and his fingers came back with several dirty strands attached. He shook his hand to get rid of them. "Let Minister Tréville know d'Artagnan has arrived in the garrison along with a wounded Musketeer, Antoine Favray." Then he looked up at the cadet, frowning slightly. "What is your name?"

"Fouchard, monsieur."

"Don't  _monsieur_  me," d’Artagnan grimaced, shaking his head, “It's d'Artagnan." Frankly the last thing he felt like at the moment was a respectable  _monsieur_. "I'd be grateful if you could also send word to Madame d'Artagnan at the Louvre. The royal governess," he added at the slightly confused expression on the lad’s face. Fouchard's eyes widened in realization and he nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes, of course."

"Thank you."

As Fouchard hurried awat, d'Artagnan spotted yet another cadet close by. He summoned him closer with a tilt of his chin.

"Have any other Musketeers arrived in the garrison this past week?"

"Yes; Captain Athos is here, with Aramis and Porthos, and two others; d'Arvieux and Tavernier."

"Good. They're all in good health?"

"Well, relatively, sir," the young man replied, "Tavernier and d'Arvieux arrived with Aramis and the captain; they were both wounded, and are now in the palace sick quarters. Porthos arrived yesterday and I believe he, too, had sustained a wound, but he's alright; he and Aramis are in the refectory."

"Very good," d’Artagnan said, satisfied. It would have been foolish not to expect the other units to encounter trouble as well, but he was relieved to hear that at least there were no casualties. "What was your name?"

"Chardin."

"Chardin," d'Artagnan acknowledged. The lad looked barely twenty years of age. d'Artagnan fleetingly wondered whether he, too, had seemed to Athos, Porthos and Aramis like this when he'd first arrived in Paris six years ago. It was a very odd thought.

To him, standing in the courtyard after such a lengthy absence, the garrison appeared unusually quiet. The ugly weather had chased everyone indoors; aside from Chardin, the few cadets that had greeted him were already out of sight. Charles d’Artagnan was not a sentimental man by any measure; he was happy to be back in the garrison, but not so much as to stand there in the rain and be taken with nostalgia. He was _,_ however, a practical man, so while his eyes trailed over the balustrade of the balcony before Tréville’s old office, a sudden thought occurred to him.

"Who has been running the garrison while we were away?" How hadn’t he even wondered about this before?

"That would be Monsieur de Neuviette, sir. He oversees everything and also instructs us in sword fighting."

"And who is this Monsieur de Neuviette?" He’d never even heard the name.

"He.. erm..."

The loss on the cadet’s face made d’Artagnan smile wanly, more to himself than to the cadet. "Never mind. He could be the king's brother-in-law for all I care; the only thing I'm interested in right now is a room with a bed."

After leaving his sparse belongings into the barrack room Chardin showed him, d'Artagnan did quick work of cleaning himself up. He managed not to fall asleep on the low stool while sponging himself, and twenty minutes later, he was walking across the courtyard in a fresh set of garments towards the welcoming door of the garrison’s refectory.

The hinges creaked, the bottom of the door scraped against the uneven floor as he pushed it, making d'Artagnan grin. Porthos had grouched about having it fixed just before they'd ridden out of the garrison two years ago. Monsieur de Neuviette, it seemed, was concentrated too much on the cadets' training to take notice of such things – either that, or he never frequented the Musketeers’ favourite hideout.

"There he is!"

Porthos’s booming voice reached up and enveloped him from across the room. Silence fell over the cadets filling the place, all of them turning to look towards the door as one.

"Gentlemen." Still grinning, d’Artagnan walked over to his friends and settled down.

"Trouble on the road?" Aramis’s tone was light, his eyes sharp on the Gascon.

"Favray's took a bullet to the side. He's in the infirmary."

"Bad?"

"Not great.”

Porthos nodded grimly. "d'Arvieux was wounded, too."

"And Tavernier. His leg got mangled."

At his own insistence, Aramis had stayed with the unit that Athos had led. d'Artagnan and Porthos had both been assigned to lead different units before taking their leave to head for Paris; the Musketeers had split into their groups and took off from the main regiment as they had marched southwest from Verdun, eventually scattering along the routes Tréville had specified for their securing.

"Then it is safe to assume that the others encountered action as well," said d'Artagnan, looking askance at his friends.

"Probably,” Aramis nodded solemnly, “though we've not received word to confirm that. Tréville dispatched most of the remaining men from the King's Guard to supplement our units."

"He did? Good.” With just over eighty able men making up the regiment now, each unit had to have been small. Although none of them realistically expected to be targeted by any large company of enemy soldiers as to be overcome, it was nevertheless a relief to hear that more men had been dispatched to support their comrades. d’Artagnan’s gaze fell on Porthos's hand as he remembered the cadet's words about him having sustained a wound.

"'tis nothin'," Porthos grumbled, picking up his wine cup as if to prove his point.

None of them had noticed that all conversation around them had dropped to whispers and a quiet had fallen over the refectory; all the cadets were listening in, not missing a single word the three Musketeers were speaking. So when someone placed a cup of wine and a delicious-looking bowl of stew before him, d'Artagnan looked up in surprise to see yet another cadet that seemed to him to materialize out of nowhere.

"Thank you…?"

"Planchet, sir.” _Again with the sir.._

"d'Artagnan," he introduced himself yet again. Planchet nodded, deep brown eyes filled with undisguised curiosity, and retreated, sliding back into the bench he shared with his friends. d'Artagnan dipped a piece of bread into the stew and devoured it before speaking up again.

"So where is Athos?"

"He's at the Louvre. Last we heard, he was meeting with the king."

"Last you heard?"

"Meetin’ with Tréville, meetin' with the king, meetin’ the queen, meetin' Tréville again." Porthos rolled his eyes. "I don' fancy 'im, an' that's a fact."

“Hm. He'd be relieved to hear that, I'm sure," Aramis put academically. d'Artagnan was sure that if Porthos didn't support that thick bandage on his right hand the heavy copper bowl on the table would have left an imprint on the marksman's face.

"Any particular reason for this meeting?"

"None that we know of," Aramis sighed, sitting back and swirling the wine at the bottom of his cup.

"Well - did you learn anything about why Tréville called us back to Paris?" (Really, did d'Artagnan have to ask everything one by one for these two to satisfy his curiosity about obvious things?)

But his latest question made Aramis sigh again, and Porthos grunted. The marksman took a sip from his drink before speaking up.

"We've seen Tréville only once," he disclosed, not fully able to hide his displeasure. "And neither he nor our captain has yet said a word about a mission."

d'Artagnan frowned at that. “Doesn't Athos know already? Surely he must have learned something by now."

"We've not seen much of him lately," Aramis explained, shaking his head. Then a sly smile sneaked through his lips. "He's taken up lodgings in the Louvre."

"He—"

"– is staying at the palace. At the king's insistence."

d'Artagnan looked from Aramis and Porthos, looking for an explanation, but Aramis only shrugged. Then his smile faded a bit.

"It's just as well," he murmured, "A proper bed does him no harm."

Then d'Artagnan remembered his friend's state of health when they'd parted ways nine days ago. "How is he?" he questioned quietly.

"Got worse before he got better. As I said, a proper bed is good. Besides, with the delightful Monsieur de Neuviette here taking up what would have been Athos's rooms..."

d'Artagnan's eyebrows rose.

"Have you met him yet?" There was an odd mixture of amusement and pity on Aramis’s face.

"I've not had the pleasure."

"You’re in for a treat,” Porthos said, snorting into his cup. “Just you wait."

Most of his pressing questions -and a non-pressing matter- thus answered, for the next several minutes d’Artagnan was content to simply enjoy his meal. He'd not noticed that Aramis had poured more wine into his cup whilst he ate. The journey from Rouen had been long and hard: Favray's wound was a through-and-though, but he'd split the bungling stitches one of the other musketeers in their unit had put in, and d'Artagnan had decided not to risk stopping on the road, fearing he wouldn't be able to get his comrade back onto the horse once they dismounted. Mopping up the final drops of juice in the bowl, he chewed slowly, pushing aside the empty bowl, and put his forehead into his palms. He didn’t realize that his eyelids were drooping.

He thought that he needed to inquire about Favray. He'd already told someone to send for a physician, but now he felt a nudging guilt for not checking on the man. The fire in the nearby hearth was spreading an ensnaring warmth through the room; it seeped into his bones and allied with the contention of his full belly to numb his thoughts. He really needed to ask after Favray. Blearily he looked around, seeing if he could spot one of the cadets who'd greeted him in the courtyard, but he could not distinguish faces. Aramis was here.. He probably would check on Favray soon, would he not?... He was.. Aramis.. after all...

The last of his thoughts disappeared like wisps of vapour in the dark, and d’Artagnan, slumped over the table, succumbed to sleep.

* * *

 " _There he is. I believe I told you he'd be fine."_

"' _I told you so' really doesn't become you, Athos." Such a nervous voice._

" _Let us hope he doesn't wake up swingin’."_

" _What?" Shocked now, and female, too._

 _"He only means that we’ve_ _just returned from the field. So startling him might not be a good idea."_

_"Of course I won’t startle him, what are you taking me for?"_

" _Then why, might I inquire, have you still not moved?"_

" _..."_

" _Go to him, Constance. We will give you some privacy."_

_Approaching footsteps - steady but uncertain - the wood under his cheek is rough but so very pleasant; sleep has turned his limbs into lead._

" _d'Artagnan?"_

"Constance..."  _He’s dreaming of her again._

" _d'Artagnan..."_

_A light hand in his hair. His dirty greasy hair - but this is a dream so Constance won't care, right? Her soft fingers gently tracing his cheek... his jaw.. and ghosting over his lips.. There’s the faintest whiff of her sweet flowery perfume in his nostrils – ah Constance – he doesn't want to wake up from this, from her, to the rough ground beneath him and the thin blanket that can't keep away the chill, and the ice-cold toes in mud-caked boots and a hundred warmongering men surrounding him -_

"Wake up or I will slap you."

_What?_

With a groan, d'Artagnan found himself waking despite his best efforts to the contrary. He blinked his eyes open and lifted his head, looking around drowsily. The refectory.. he was in the garrison.. Had he fallen asleep here like a fool-

" _Constance!_ ”

She laughed.

He sprung to his feet in a such a rush he sent the chair crashing down and scooped her into his arms.

She was laughing and crying and babbling at the same time.

"I believe I said something about privacy," Athos said, turning on his heel and looking pointedly at his grinning friends. But as they left the refectory and pulled the door behind them, his own eyes were no less sparkly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes:**  
>  \- The Saint-Honoré gate was indeed renovated in 1635 by order of King Louis XIII. The first image at the beginning shows that incarnation from outside the walls; the second one is a view from within the city. In the second image, the domed building at the left wouldn't yet exist by 1636.  
> \- In _The Three Musketeers,_ Dumas tells us that Monsieur de Tréville’s _maison_ is on _Rue Vieux-Colombier_. Since, in the series, Tréville lives in the garrison, I decided that the Musketeer garrison thus translates to Tréville’s house - and drew the route d’Artagnan and Favray take from Saint-Honoré accordingly. It seems that the _Rue Vieux-Colombier_ has at some point changed its name: comparing a 17th century map of Paris (from the wonderful website Gallica) with a modern-day map shows that it should be the street that runs between _Rue Férou_ and _Rue des Colettes_ ; however today there are not one but two streets than run perpendecular to them, and between them stands _Eglise Saint-Sulpice_. After some deep scrutinizing, I came to the conclusion that _Rue Vieux-Colombier_ today corresponds to part of _Rue-Saint-Sulpice_ , therefore the 17th century square of _Croix-Rouge_ (which I imagined to be the market square we see in the series in front of the garrison gate), and thus the Musketeer garrison, would be at the junction of _Rue-Saint-Sulpice, Rue des Four_ and _Rue des Grenelles_. -- > **Correction:** And it turns out, Google Maps decided to trick me into all this, because lo-and-behold, _Rue Veiux Colombier_ is apparently very much in place. *facepalm* If anything, I'm relieved to find it's exactly where I predicted it would be. Small victories...


	12. Civilization While You Can - II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Historical Background:**  
>  This one is pretty history-heavy I'm afraid, but the real plot is in there, so I'll ask you to please be patient with it.  
> General Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar, whom there's a lot of talk about, was an important German general/duke who entered into French service in October 1635. While the events of this chapter are taking place (October 1636), an imperial (i.e. Habsburg) allied general called Matthias Gallas had control of the Burgundy region (southeast of Paris). Finally, Sweden is being ruled by a regency because their king was slain in battle two years prior.

**Civilization While You Can (II/II)**

 

**~*~**

Contrary to the three  _Inseparables'_  assumptions, until that day, Athos had not had the opportunity to sit down with Tréville to talk about why the Musketeers had been summoned to Paris. As Minister of War, Tréville was busier than Athos had even known him to be as captain: council meetings were lasting hours upon hours and when he wasn't in meetings, he was overwhelmed with what people demeaningly thought of as 'paperwork'. With an ever-growing sense of respect -and perhaps a bit of amusement as well- Athos observed that Tréville didn't have to do nearly as much as he seemed to be doing. He was still pouring over every report in person, still analysing every piece of intelligence himself– happy to relegate much of the scribing to his secretary, but waging a national war with much the same hands-on approach as he'd lead a garrison full of men into battle. Athos had watched him scrutinize a routine scout report with a smile he hadn't been able to conceal.

The day Athos had arrived in Paris – two days before, October 5th – Tréville had sent for him late in the evening. The clocks were chiming ten o'clock all around the palace as Athos was shown into the minister's private study, only to be welcomed with a second embrace and a huge grin that day. Their first meeting in the afternoon had had to be quick and brief. Both the captain and the minister were deeply tired, and instead of talking about prospective missions and a war that was most certainly not going well for France, they had spent the night as two old friends catching up after an eventful separation.

It had been a markedly different experience for Athos to converse with Tréville that night. Never had he ever had the level of insight into the man that he had now; never feeling quite this close to Tréville in any of the numerous times they'd shared a quiet drink in the captain's office in the garrison. Seventeen months shouldering the responsibility of the regiment had provided Athos with a perspective he couldn't have had before, and his respect -and gratitude- for Tréville had tripled since the march to Leuven last summer. There had been times when Athos had felt truly overwhelmed; times when, he'd been sure, that had it not been for the unwavering support of Porthos and d'Artagnan, he would have floundered. In such instances, he'd scoured through his memories to imagine what Tréville would have said or done.

And so, a bottle of the minister's finest vintage was two-thirds gone by the time Athos had taken his leave well past that midnight, and as he'd walked to his newly-assigned quarters overlooking the Seine, he'd felt lighter than he could remember feeling in months.

Today, Tréville greeted him with a tight smile and unmistakable relief in his eyes. He measured wine for the both of them and sat down, not behind his large, walnut-tree desk which currently overflowed with scrolls upon scrolls of letters, reports and notes, but in the second chair across from Athos by the fire. The captain's eyebrows rose as he reached to accept the offered glass.

"I thought we were talking business this time."

"We are." Tréville sank more than sat down on the chair, and offered a smile. "I won't tell if you don't."

There was a brief, companionable silence between the two men before either of them spoke.

"I suppose," Tréville said, "I should explain why you and the others have been summoned back from Lorraine."

"That would satisfy some curiosity," Athos agreed somewhat dryly.

"The day after tomorrow, after the celebrations of Saint-Denis, the king is going to make a very important visit to  _Château de Rambouillet_. You, along with Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan, will be accompanying him. It will be a covert affair: other than myself and the four of you, only three people know of it - the queen, the Marquis de Rambouillet, and General Toussaine."

"General Toussaine," Athos said tonelessly. His voice was so monotonous yet so full of implication, it was rather fascinating.

"I'm assuming he didn't give you many hints about this assignment," Tréville noted with a quirk of his lips.

"My valet at Pinon was mute. He'd lost his speech after a childhood illness. He was rather more prone to sharing than General Toussaine."

There was a touch of incredulity in Tréville's surprised snort, and he raised the glass to his lips in an effort to hide his laugh.

"It's just as well you don't have to serve under his command." Then, he sobered. "Toussaine is a very learned man, and a great strategist. I have known him for a long time; we are not exactly friends, but we've been acquainted well enough to appreciate one another."

Athos nodded, content with the explanation. "What is the nature of this visit to Rambouillet?"

"The king will be meeting the German general Bernhard of Saxe-Weimar. He is hoping to convince him to take charge of driving Matthias Gallas's forces out of Burgundy. That way, some of the pressure on our troops will be relieved, and we will be able to focus our attention on Picardy."

Athos's forehead creased until a deep frown was wedged into his brow. There was much in that explanation that didn't sound right – and Tréville seemed well aware of it.

"I can see your questions fighting to get in line," he said kindly. "Go ahead."

Athos thought for a few moments before speaking up. "Is there a reason why this meeting is taking place in Rambouillet instead of here in Paris?" It wasn't necessarily the most obvious question to ask, but Athos had felt it to be the most prudent one.

"Several," Tréville confirmed with a nod, "the most important being that the city is infested with spies. We cannot take the risk of our enemies getting wind of our plans."

"I do not understand." Athos's frown deepened as he thought. "Saxe-Weimar has been in French service for over a year now; his alliance with France is hardly a secret. Neither does it take much intelligence to gather that we're looking for means to relieve Burgundy of Gallas's men." He gazed intently at Tréville. "Why the secrecy? Why the king himself riding out to meet him - as minister for war, why aren't  _you_?"

"The king is adamant in meeting Saxe-Weimar in person," Tréville returned with a shake of his head, "I cannot accompany him, because if both the king  _and_  his minister disappear for several hours on the same day, it will send alarm bells ringing across every spy network operating in the city. It would defeat the entire purpose of secrecy. General Toussaine will be going in my stead."

"General Toussaine?" Athos's eyebrows shot upright in surprise. "He is in Paris?"

"Arrived early this morning. The meeting with Saxe-Weimar was his design. He will carry the negotiations on France's behalf."

Athos hesitated only for a moment before saying, "You trust him, then."

Any other man would have taken offence at Athos's carefully stated words. Tréville had already disclosed that he'd known the general for a long while and seemed to approve of the plan the man had conceived. But Tréville only smiled. It was only natural for Athos to need the reassurance.

"I do, Athos. He can be frustrating, I'll give you that, but there can be no doubt that he has France's best interest in heart."

Athos nodded, satisfied. "I thought Saxe-Weimar was in Lützen," he commented then.

"So does everyone else. His troop of 18.000 men remain stationed there, but the general, along with two of his high-ranking officers, will be coming down to Rambouillet for the meeting."

"Why him?" Athos asked suddenly. "Saxe-Weimar carried the Swedes to victory after their king was slain in Lützen, but since the defeat in Nördlingen in '34, every campaign he has led has ended in disaster. Surely he's had his high time, but it seems to me have passed."

But Tréville sagely shook his head. "It's been barely two years since the debacle in Nördlingen. There is no reason to think it more definitive than Lützen in '32. It seems that the only constant in this war, Athos, is how quickly fortunes change. Regardless of his recent setbacks, Saxe-Weimar has plenty of experience in meeting the imperial forces on the battleground. Unlike us, he has proven tactics for countering the  _tercios'_ assaults."

"That is all well," Athos said carefully, "but it does not explain why the king is insistent in negotiating this deal personally. With enough motivation, it is unlikely that Saxe-Weimar should be difficult to convince. Why is Louis risking riding to Rambouillet himself?"

"You would be surprised," responded Tréville as he leaned forward to leave his glass down, "but the king has been quite hands-on since the beginning of the war." Something subtle shifted in his face as he looked to Athos again, as if a thin layer slid down from his gaze. "Ever since we've unfoiled Rochefort's treachery, Louis has shown more interest in the affairs of state than he has ever done before."

"Please do not tell me he is trying to make amends," Athos found himself saying. He could not fully disguise how unimpressed he was.

"He is embarrassed," Tréville reiterated with a stern look, then sighed. "It's been difficult for him to accept that he's been manipulated for so long. He's become almost paranoid about whom he takes into his trust. For two years he fully believed Rochefort to be his closest friend and ally; can you blame him for personally seeking revenge against Spain?"

Could he?

Athos knew it was a rhetorical question, that he was expected to answer in the negative, but found that he couldn't bring himself to feel emphaty for the king. He was aware that, having known Louis since he was a boy, Tréville  _cared_  for the man that was king. But while Athos himself lived to serve the crown, his own sympathy for Louis  _le Bourbon_  was falling short when he recalled the utter mayhem and misery Rochefort's reign had caused.

"The king's emotional investment does not explain  _or_  justify risking a six-hour ride back and forth into the country," he resolved to pointing out instead.

"Perhaps not," returned Tréville, seemingly ready to concede the point, "but the real reason behind his meeting with Saxe-Weimar does."

He pushed himself up from his seat, walked over to the desk, and with unhurried movements, picked up the wine bottle and refilled his cup. He wordlessly put it back down when Athos refused with a shake of his head, then turned and leaned back against the desk.

"The king," he began to explain, "is hoping to convince Saxe-Weimar to  _lend.._ a number of high-ranking military men to France. Not just temporarily, but for the foreseeable future."

Athos was listening attentively.

"The plan is not for them to lead French armies into battle. His Majesty wishes for these men to train a small number of our infantry and cavalry troops in battle strategy. He's been convinced that Saxe-Weimar has a good deal to teach us in how to counter the  _tercio_ s," he huffed slightly, "and I incline to agree." Pushing himself away from the desk, he walked back over and retook his seat.

"France's infantry is young, Athos," he said seriously, "There has been no shortage of able-bodied recruits since we've begun conscripting, but the vast majority is badly inexperienced. We are not  _winning_ ; we're barely keeping the enemy from overrunning the country. Unless we solve the problem of effective training and discipline, and develop working strategies for the battleground, sheer numbers will only delay the inevitable."

"You think that by having our troops trained by Saxe-Weimar…"

"… it might very well change the fate of the war in the long term," Tréville completed. "That is why this will be no ordinary meeting; that is why the king insists on meeting the man himself. He wants to personally make sure that Saxe-Weimar will be convinced of this plan. It  _has_  to be a secret, because if Spain ever gets wind of this design, they will do everything in their power to prevent us from implementing it. If  _Sweden_ hears of it,  _at best_ , it would be an embarrassment we'd be hard-pressed to play down."

"The regency's relationship with Saxe-Weimar has been frosty since Nördlingen," Athos mused, nodding at that. "Regent Oxenstierna has a personal grudge against the man."

"He may very well take our further involvement with him as an insult to his regency. And the last thing we can afford right now is to offend our closest ally in the war."

Well. When Tréville put it like that, the stakes, indeed, seemed very high.

"What is the plan, then, for October 9th? How will the king be taken to Rambouillet?"

"After the parade and the celebrations in the morning, the king will retreat back to the palace. The queen will announce that he's not feeling well. It will come as a surprise to no one; he's been 'not feeling well' more and more frequently whenever he needs to make a public appearance." Tréville smiled tightly, and there was something a touch mournful, and a touch indulgent in it. "You will meet him at a servant's entry, and ride out in plain clothing through Gaillion. The four of you and Toussaine will escort him to the  _château_  and return to Paris under cover of dark."

All of a sudden, Athos was reminded of the single disastrous occasion in which they'd accompanied the king when he'd gone out  _incognito_. It had ended up with him and d'Artagnan being kidnapped and very nearly losing their lives.

With Paris still surrounded by enemy troops on all three sides, interminable spy networks operating all over the city, and the fate of the nation possibly hanging on the success of this meeting... what could possibly go wrong?

"One more thing," Tréville said.

Athos stopped and turned when he was about to take a step towards the door. Tréville's expression was grave as he looked to him.

"Athos... I would ask you to not tell the others the real nature of this meeting until after the king is back in the Louvre."

Athos felt like roots grew out of his feet to pin him down to the spot.

"May I ask why?" he inquired slowly, hardly needing to ask to whom Tréville referred.

Tréville shook his head, his expression appropriately troubled. "I won't insult you  _or_  them by saying it's for security reasons. But as to what it is for..." he looked straight into Athos's eyes, "I cannot tell."

Tréville did not need to say it. Athos already knew that whatever this was about, it had nothing to do with his trust in Aramis, Porthos or d'Artagnan. Tréville was regarding him with an open expression that said he had nothing to hide.

"Would you indulge me in this?"

Tréville was fully aware that what he was asking was no small favour. But even as something ice-cold began to sneak its way through his belly, Athos gave a small, heavy nod of consent. As distasteful as he found the prospect of keeping things from his friends, his trust in Tréville was implicit and direct.

"Thank you," the minister said with utmost sincerity.

Athos did not reply.

There was a knock on the door and Tréville called for them to enter; a page walked in with a small silver tray and held out an unsealed letter to Tréville. The minister's eyes quickly skimmed over the lines.

"d'Artagnan has arrived in the garrison. He is well, but Favray was injured." He pursed his lips. "They were attacked as well, then."

"It is not unexpected," Athos returned practically. Tréville's request was swirling uncomfortably in his stomach, but he was relieved that the news did not entail a further death. "What of Favray?"

"Doesn't say. I expect they'd include word if it was dire." He left the letter on the desk and glanced at the clock across the wall. "I must meet with Chancellor Dupré at four. Will you be heading back to the garrison?"

"If you have no further use for me." Tréville smiled again and Athos caught the same strange expression he'd glimpsed when Tréville had talked about Louis's lack of public appearances.

This time, he recognized it as regret.

"Constance must have received word that her husband has returned."

"I shall call on her before taking my leave," Athos assuaged him.

"Very well. Tell d'Artagnan I'm glad to hear he is back, if you would please. We'll reconvene tomorrow."

With a final inclination of his head, Athos left the minister's office with heavy steps and closed the door after him.

He stood there for a moment, in the empty corridor, silent and pensive, to take one deep breath, and release it slowly through his nose. Then he turned and nodded at the page waiting near the door.

"Please inform Madame D'Artagnan that her husband has returned from the front, and that Captain Athos is awaiting to accompany her to the garrison."

He would not admit it aloud, but after shouting down orders on the battlefield for so long, he found an odd comfort in the familiar formality of speech and polite request.

Five minutes later, he was carefully locking away his cumbersome thoughts, gently picking up Constance's hand to place it on his arm, and allowing himself the simple pleasure of reuniting the d'Artagnans.

* * *

Later that evening, as the sulking sun went down and the cadets began lighting the torches in all corners of the garrison, the five of them stood together in a tight group in the courtyard.

When Porthos suggested that they reacquaint themselves with some properly civilized establishments while they had the time, neither Aramis nor Athos refused. d'Artagnan, however, had different plans.

"No offence, gentlemen, but I've had enough of your company to last me a lifetime." The arm he'd snuck around his wife tightened, and Constance slightly blushed.

"Ouch," Aramis said with a fist to his heart.

When a young cadet accidentally dropped several unlit torches at d'Artagnan's feet, he apologized profusely in a bundle of 'sir's and 'monsieur's, looking positively mortified.

"There's really no need for the formality," d'Artagnan called after him in helpless exasperation.

"Oi," Porthos frowned, turning towards him from where he'd walked several steps ahead, "speak for yourself, would you? I like the sound of  _monsieur_ before me' name."

Aramis grinned as leaned in close and patted d'Artagnan's chest.

"Take Porthos's advice, my dear Monsieur d'Artagnan; we're in Paris after all! A little civilization while we can have it won't go remiss, don't you think?"

He winked, adjusted his hat, and strode out with the others with a flair.

And where had the past six years of battles and identity crises gone again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes:**  
>  \- Château de Rambouillet is a medieval castle located some 65 kms southwest of Paris. In the early-17th century it was owned by the Marquis de Ramboulliet; the castle was a favored location of Louis XIII particularly for hunting and, after the 1620s, for its eclectic pleasure gardens. Here's an admission: apparently a good horse can travel at most some 50 miles in one day. Realistically, a round-trip between Paris and Rambouillet should take two days; not six hours as I made it to be. Let us pretent I never looked that up!  
> \- Bernhard von Saxe-Weimar was a German general who took up command and led the Swedes to victory after their king Gustav Adolphus fell in Lützen, soon after the siege of Nüremberg in 1632 (a.k.a. the battle "General de Foix" in S2Ep1 was supposed to be killed in. Although, what a French general would be doing in a quarrel between the Swedish king and a relentless German general called Wallenstein beats me). The historical information in this chapter about Saxe-Weimar, the battles mentioned, Sweden's -temporary- military superiority over the imperial forces, and Matthias Gallas's invasion of Burgundy are all historically true. General Toussaine, as you know, is my creation, and I (sort of) take credit for Athos and Tréville's interpretations and plans regarding the situation. France signed repetitive treaties of alliance with Sweden in 1635 and 1636 and hired foreign generals to fight in the name of France, but having Louis meet Saxe-Weimar and the plot to have him train French officers is fully my fabrication. I also tweaked and highlighted certain points for the sake of dramatization.  
> \- I'm practically peppering the story with names stolen with from real 17th and 18th century French figures. Antoine Favray was a late-18th century painter; (Jean-Baptiste) Tavernier a 17th century merchant and traveller who left behind a lengthy travelogue. Jean Chardin was the son of a Parisian jeweller, and another merchant-traveller; (Laurent) d'Arvieux, a chevalier, was a member of the diplomatic retinue of the French ambassador to Constantinople in 1670s. In previous chapters we had (Jean de) Thévenot, yet another traveller, and (Antoine) Galland, a so-called "Orientalist" and archaeologist who was also the first person to translate One Thousand and One Nights into a European language ( _Les Milles et Une Nuits_ ). "Monsieur de Neuviette", however, is shamelessly clinched from _Cyrano de Bergerac_. I'm discovering my own arsenal while writing this fic, lol.


	13. Cracks in the Foundation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear all,  
> It's been ten very long months since the beginning of this story, and I have just realized how many people have stuck with it since then, even though it's a massive tortoise in a rabbit enclosure. It's pretty humbling and I appreciate it very much, so my thanks to everyone who has been reading, commenting, and leaving 'kudos'. I hope your patience holds out for the rest, because we're just coming to the half-way mark, and there is so much more that I can't wait to share. Thanks, and enjoy.

* * *

**Cracks in the Foundation**

There was a prickling sensation at the back of his neck.

It was early afternoon the day before Saint-Denis', and Athos was walking back from the Louvre to the garrison. The incessant rain of the last few days had ceased, but the thick cloud cover still hovered above, portending a fresh assault any moment now. Despite the grumbling threat, the square brimmed with Parisians from all walks of life, men and women going about their business masterfully avoiding slipping in the muck that coated the pebble-paved ground. It was a skill garnered from an early age, and walking purposefully among them with his customary straight-backed gait, the Captain of the Musketeers was setting a prime example.

Adjusting his cloak from one shoulder to his back, Athos casually scanned the crowds as he cut his way through the shoppers, merchants and craftsmen hollering over each another in their bid to attract customers. He didn't expect any trouble on his way to the garrison – that is, any trouble bigger than the usual petty-thefts or brawls over steep prices market days never went without. His alertness was more out of ingrained habit, for today, he knew quite well the source of his disquiet. Early in the morning, he had met with General Toussaine in the palace. After that, along with Aramis, d'Artagnan and Porthos, they had gone over the details of the plan for tomorrow's ride. As Athos had expected, his friends had put before him all the questions he had asked Tréville the day before regarding the king's visit to Rambouillet; in return, he had told them that the meeting was of absolute importance for the future of France and made it clear that the knowledge would have to suffice.

Again, as expected, they hadn't taken it very well.

The temperature in the room had steadily declined as they had discussed it, all three men visibly vexed about being shut out of Tréville's - and by extension, Athos's – confidence. Athos couldn't remember finding himself in a situation as distasteful as this in a long time; but still, to his relief, aside from some grumbling and a downward turn of the lips, neither Porthos nor d'Artagnan had pressed him for information he'd promised not to give. Aramis, however, had been more vocal about his discontent. Something suspiciously resembling resentment had flashed in his eyes before he had questioned, in that softly-spoken manner he wielded like a weapon when he desired, whether this was how things worked between 'Captain Athos and his men'.

And that had hurt.

It had hurt deeply to hear that from Aramis's lips, to have it be him to shove that lever into the crack the captaincy had created between them, and to force it to widen by addressing it the way he had. Athos had been doing his best to keep it as a barely-there thin line.

From that point forward, things had taken a decidedly downward turn.

Athos had given a cool rebuke. Porthos had thrown the marksman a hard, condemning glare. d'Artagnan had pursed his lips in annoyance and just like that, because Tréville had asked Athos to not share the details of the mission with his friends, a twisted discord now lay between them that hadn't been there just a day before. Athos knew it was not something that merited displaced angst; he was confident they would resolve it in due course. But such discord between the four of them was so rare, by the time they'd dispersed from the staterooms allocated to them for the meeting, the entire episode had left a distinctly sour taste at the back of his mouth.

Now, several hours later, the recollection was only serving to collect that acrid feel down into his stomach instead.

A gust of wind spattered fresh fat raindrops onto the brim of his hat. Athos parried an encroaching shiver and wished he'd thought of wearing a neck scarf. This walk, instead of the more sensible ride, was intended to clear his thoughts, but so far it wasn't working, as with each step, he could feel his disquiet growing deeper instead. Without noticing, he squared his shoulders again.

Despite how badly Aramis's words had cut, he could not find it in himself to be angry with his friend. Since his arrival at the camp near Bonnecourt, Aramis had been eager to re-integrate himself both into the life of soldiery and into the folds of their brotherhood. But whereas the former had remained exactly the same, the dynamics of the latter had inevitably changed: the three Inseperables, without their fourth, had had to adapt not only to Aramis's absence, but also to the equally sudden elevation in Athos's rank. In all fairness, the marksman had returned to find the one thing each of them had come to depend on – their friendship – transformed.

Some weeks ago, before Aramis had shared with them the story of what had transpired in Douai, Athos had heard him and d'Artagnan talking outside of his tent. " _You're a good friend, Aramis,_ " d'Artagnan had been saying, voice filled with characteristic candour, " _but if for some reason you've forgotten that... then it's up to us t_ _o remind you of it again._ "

Athos could always depend on d'Artagnan to make child's play of things neither himself nor Porthos could express.

He rested a light hand on the hilt of his sword, striding past a large corner stall stacked with gentleman's hats. An elderly woman was arranging bouquets of brightly-coloured plumes to be sold along with them, and Athos nearly smiled. He had always found Aramis's relationship with the chain of command amusingly ironic. More often then not, Aramis chose to obey orders in a manner which pleased him, rather than in the way that was expected of him. Granted, the same could be said for all four of them – that is, all four of them  _before_  Athos had been made captain – but would Aramis, Athos now wondered for the very first time, find it difficult to take orders from  _him_?

He shook his head at a woman trying to sell him soggy bread rolls. There had been nothing to make Athos suspect such a thing until their frosty confrontation in the morning. On the contrary, all he had found in his friend's presence had been  _warmth;_  warmth and steadfast companionship of the kind that only Aramis could offer him. The man's mere presence was blocking a cool draft that had left Athos in a state of constant chill for the last eighteen months.

He shivered.

So sudden and fierce it was that his steps faltered; fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword and he frowned. He wasn't feeling  _that_ cold.

Suddenly unsure, he took a few more steps and casually stopped in front of a public fountain. With deliberate movements, he reached for his coin pouch, fished out a  _livre_  and left it into the palm of a small, bare-footed child. Surreptitiously, he glanced left and right.

What was he looking for?

A hat pulled too far down, to conceal a face? A sinister gaze, fixated upon his person? A figure, half-hidden, skulking in the shadows– but there was nothing. Before him, tiny fingers closed around the coin he had left and a pair of huge, brown eyes peered at him in pure, innocent wonder. Pursing his lips, Athos reached down a finger and caressed the child's cheek before resuming his walk.

He  _was_  feeling a bit cold.

And this wasn't the feeling of being watched. This was something different. Something... nagging at him, like a pebble under a bed mat.

He sighed.

That wasn't a bad metaphor for what bothered him about himself and Aramis.

And what of Porthos, he thought, after expending two whole minutes, a withering glare and a terrifying reminder of the depths of the Chatelet while breaking up a brawl over a bargain gone wrong; wasn't the time spent apart also the reason why Porthos still had difficulty clicking back into place with their friend?

 _Porthos_  was a steadying thought. Porthos; their rock, their stability. More than once throughout their years of friendship, it had been Porthos's unshakable faith and trust, his intrinsic understanding of their bonds, that had helped Athos to regain his own equilibrium.

Not least on the day Tréville had informed him that he'd been made captain.

It had been Porthos who had first noticed Athos's frame of mind that day. Him who had found his friend at a complete loss in the garrison armoury, for the first time in a long while, in a state of complete emotional disarray. The men filling the courtyard outside were no longer Athos's comrades, but  _his men._  'War had been declared on Spain' _._ Aramis had disappeared from his life at the drop of a hat and Anne's offer was expiring, the sun sliding towards the horizon ticking like a short-fused bomb -

_Anne._

Athos had managed not to think of her for several long days now.

He forcefully pushed back thoughts of his wife. Porthos; it had been Porthos who had quietly, clearly and irrefragably calmed him down that day. Reminded him gently of his priorities – and not once had he mentioned the word 'duty'. That was the wonder that Porthos was.

And what had Athos done after that?

Shame raised its ugly head from where he kept it deeply buried, and Athos slowly exhaled.

There was no point in thinking about that day - thinking about her. This dread that he felt, this strange, deep unease – he couldn't get rid of it. It was like a  _déjà-vu_ , as if he'd already felt this particular feeling before, at a specific time and place, not too far in the past –

The morning he'd led the regiment out of Toussaine's camp.

But also, something else.

Something  _dangerous._

Senses fully alert now, he quieted his mind, quickened his pace and thought of nothing else until he reached the garrison.

* * *

One hour later, he was standing in the courtyard with Tréville on one side, his friends on the other, forming a line before their well-weathered bench at the foot of the stairs and watching the garrison's swordmaster Monsieur de Neuviette sparring with a cadet.

Except, it couldn't be called sparring.

It was more like a crazy gambol with a rapier. Neither the  _Inseperables_  nor the Minister had ever seen anything like it before: de Neuviette was whirling on his feet, spinning around himself, extending his limbs back and forth and  _hopping_  like a  _danseur_ ; he was bending his arms in the most bizarre angles at the most unexpected moments and it was all the poor cadet could do to not get stabbed. There was no predicting what the man would do next: at one point, he jumped forth and thrust the rapier so abruptly, the cadet staggered sideways, arms flailing, and batted away at the blade like a frightened kitchen maid.

The weirdest 'training' session Athos had ever watched ended five minutes later with an odd little bow from de Neuviette and a funnier imitation of the same thing from the hapless cadet. Sneaking a sideways glance towards his friends, Athos found himself having to suppress a foreign urge to laugh.

"Um...  _What_ was that?" d'Artagnan asked, his expression blank.

"I'm prayin' to God you're not gonna say that's what he's teaching the cadets," said Porthos, looking offended. Tréville looked like he might actually be sick.

"My God," he breathed, aghast. "My God, I had no idea. de Neuviette came highly recommended."

"I'm guessing the admission interview didn't include a demonstration of his skills," Aramis put in diplomatically. Tréville was starting to look guilty.

"If it is any consolation," Athos felt the need to weigh in, "I rather doubt it's easy to find a swordmaster at the standards you seek."

"Look on the bright side," Aramis added helpfully, "a simple readjustment in the monsieur's position as the regiment's dance tutor would solve the matters most suitably. Didn't you always used to complain of our shoddy footwork?"

"I'll never live this one down, will I?"

"Unlikely," Porthos snorted, clapping a consoling hand against the man's back.

Two hours later, Athos had finished and double-checked the preparations for the next day's ride and was about to mount his horse when he heard approaching footsteps, a familiar voice calling out to him. He looked over to find Aramis walking up to him, his expression solemn, hat held up in both hands.

"About this morning," the marksman said without preamble, sounding stiff as resolved to say the words, "I apologize. I shouldn't have said what I said; I was.. out of line."

_Out of line?_

Athos took his foot back down from the stirrup and looked his friend up and down, cool gaze assessing. "You're being very formal," he remarked.

But perhaps Aramis took that as a barbed rejoinder about their disagreement in the morning because he flinched, blinking as if surprised; Athos quickly reached out and laid a soft hand on his arm.

"Peace, Aramis. It was merely a jest."

Aramis visibly relaxed.

"I  _am_  sorry, Athos," he sighed mildly, genuinely contrite as he raked a hand through his hair, "I know you don't need me to make things more difficult right now."

"I rather doubt you can help that," Athos couldn't help but return, lips twitching. His good-humour didn't go unnoticed this time, as Aramis sheepishly grinned, graciously accepting the truth of the statement; then, deeming the matter resolved, he gave a parting nod and turned to take his leave. But instead of releasing its grip, Athos's hand on his arm only tightened its hold; when Aramis turned to look at him, he found himself suddenly pinned by a very intense gaze.

"Aramis," Athos said, low voice resounding with a raw solemnity, "You were not out of line this morning. You have not been back with us for long, my friend; you need time to figure out where that line is drawn first. And until you do that.. I'm prepared to give you all the leeway you need."

Aramis nodded gratefully.

"But I would not have you question our friendship on the basis of that line." Athos held up a hand when Aramis, distressed, opened his mouth to protest. "I do not expect you  _or_  the others to stop questioning me. I have never expected it, and being made captain did not change that, but there  _is_  a line, Aramis. I did not seek to form it, nor have I ever wanted it to be there, but it  _exists_  and I need to know that you, as a Musketeer, will know when not to cross it."

"That wasn't my intent – Athos – I wasn't –"

But Athos shook his head. He  _knew_ it wasn't Aramis's intent. To cross any lines. To question their friendship. It wasn't Aramis's  _intent._

"Give yourself time," he said only, softly. It was spoken as advice, but there was a touch of request in it. "Give yourself time, Aramis; that is all I ask."

Aramis held Athos's gaze for a long moment, then, gave a small, grave nod. His shoulders gradually relaxed, and the tension visibly drained out of his frame. "You only ask what is best for me," he murmured towards the earth.

"I do, Aramis, because that is the great friend and the saintly captain that I am."

Grateful for the chuckle that quip brought up, Athos, too, smiled, heart ligtening, then turned and pulled himself up on the saddle.

"Meet me in the  _Le Baron Rouge_  in an hour," he said, looking down. "Considering what we'll be doing tomorrow, we may not be able to indulge much, but any setting that is not the palace or the garrison would be a welcome respite."

"Where are you going?"

"To secure my old rooms at  _Rue Férou_."

"'Any setting that is not the palace or the garrison...'"

"Precisely." He nudged his horse into a trot and rode out.

* * *

Business at  _Rue Férou_  was taken care of quickly. Athos had cautioned his landlord, before riding off to war, that he expected to find his lodgings available for use when he returned to Paris. He'd not expected the man to keep the rooms empty for an interminable stretch of time - not when the city was overflowing with refugees and newcomers seeking accommodation - but he'd made it clear that the man himself would deal with the lodgers that might be using the place when Athos returned. Thankfully, the king's unexpected invitation for him to stay at the palace had given the landlord at  _Rue Férou_  a few days' time to give notice to the room's current occupants. Therefore, when Athos sought out and found the man in a barbershop half an hour later, it was a short matter of contracts and a downward turn of the lips at the appalling rise in rent until Athos was in possession of a pair of rooms of his own again.

A ten-minute ride out from the tavern where he would meet his friends on  _Rue Saint-Jacques_ , he allowed his horse to pick its own leisurely pace in the increasingly deserted streets. Nigh on the hour of sunset, Paris had turned into a city of monochrome grey: from the sky above to the cobblestones beneath, all colour was washed out under the thick veil of the clouds, which, after all these hours, still held out on their weeping. What were they waiting for? What was the sign they awaited to release their burden, to wreak misery on mankind below to shed their own grief? Puddles splashed under the horses' hooves, muddied water glinting like scattered gold coins where the light of the torches spilled reflections on them. In the calm before the storm, down on  _Rue des Madurins_ , every little sound was strangely amplified.

A sharp intake of breath - an involuntary exclamation of surprise after a slip in the muck.

A faint rustling sound. The wind, harassing the leaves of the plane tree ahead – what else?

The soft whimper of a woman in distress – the hair on Athos's arms stood up on end. He swiftly slid off the saddle, tethered the horse to a loop in the nearest wall and  _followed._

Later on, he wouldn't be able to say what it was that drew him to that alley. His feet carried him forward, guided by an inexorable intuition; all thoughts vanished from his mind, hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw as he rounded the plane tree in the corner and stopped.

There, some thirty feet ahead in the narrow alleyway, two figures struggled in the gloomy dark under a jutting overhang. One was trapped against the wall - clearly a woman - while the other stood before her, one arm outstretched, pressing a hand against the woman's mouth. Quite small for a man, lean, and calm - calm as if smothering women in back alleys was a day trade; the outline of an updo on top of the head -

Athos's heart  _thundered._

Voluminous skirts; rich fabric, even in the shadow underneath the overhang, shimmering where the second-hand residue of a lamplight fell over from a second-story window. Athos couldn't move.

The woman was choking – Athos's hands and feet were rapidly turning into ice. An out-of-the-world cold was claiming him, rushing to grab his heart and stop it - the woman was convulsing – breath cut off by her assailant's relentless hand. Athos had to move –  _shout!_  – but he couldn't - he was frozen.

 _She_  didn't see him. The moment her victim went limp, she allowed her to slide down to the pavement, crouching alongside her; with practiced ease and speed, she stripped her off her valuables - a small coin purse, earrings snatched from the lobes, a heavy chain unfastened from around the neck – and rose, pulling the string of a now lumpy pouch. She turned casually and began to retreat.

Seconds after she began to move, Athos was released from the spell that had immobilized him as abruptly as it had struck; he rushed to the insensate woman's side, praying fervently that she lived, and slid two fingers under her chin. The faint thrum of pulse under his skin was the assurance he needed; he didn't waste time with calling for help – he had a quarry to chase.

He caught up with her within minutes, in another back-alley in the maze of Paris's back-streets, just behind the evening bustle on the grand  _Rue de la Harpe_.

"You are a long way from England, I see."

Milady didn't start. Twenty feet ahead of Athos, she smoothly ground to a halt and turned with a perfect twirl on her heel, and stood, the hem of her skirts brushing over the stones. Abrupt strokes of light from a nearby torch half-illuminated her frame - a life-size portrait, grotesquely misplaced.

"Athos."

There was the faintest touch of surprise in the simple acknowledgement, and nothing else.

"What are you doing back in Paris, Anne?"

"Anne?" She sounded genuinely surprised to hear her own name. "No, no, Athos; it is Milady de Winter to you." Her eyes were like frost.

Despite his own exterior calm, Athos's heart was beating wildly in his chest.

"What are you doing here?" he repeated in a low voice. Milady blinked, arms crossed lightly across her body, unmoving.

"France is my home." She shrugged minutely. "Where else would I go?"

"You nearly murdered a woman, and robbed her before my eyes."

"True," she affirmed without emotion. "Are you going to arrest me?"

There was no hint of that playful coyness she mastered so perfectly, not even a hint of mocking although that was the obvious intent in her words. Only a strange remoteness, a distance of the kind Athos had never felt with her - something he could not read.

But what was she thinking? That because it was  _her_ and because she carried  _that_ scar and because Athos had not turned up at the crossroads to take her up on her offer to flee to a new life, he would continue allowing her to get away with her ways?

He swallowed hard, an unforgiving weight sinking into his chest.

"I have a new protector now," Milady supplied coldly. "You wish to lock me up? Go ahead; I'll be freed before you knew it."

Athos was suddenly struck by that relentless  _deja-vu_  again - by the memory of another rainy night, another dark alley, outside the Bastille, and a feeling of disgust so sharp, it was like liquid fire in his veins - a forbidden kiss -

"History keeps repeating itself, don't you think?"

"You had a chance to break it," she suddenly snapped, with such venom, she might as well have slapped him across the face. Athos flinched as if burned.

"Who are you working for now?" he asked, his voice a study in enforced calm.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know." She took another step closer, and held out both her wrists. "But do go on; arrest me if you like. God forbid we leave a stain on your conscience – it is your duty to capture criminals, after all."

The look she was giving him was like a thousand pieces of shrapnel cutting into his flesh. His arms felt like lead at the sides and he could not raise them, even though a desperate voice in his head was screaming,  _screaming_  at him to move.

Milady slowly lowered her arms again, a sickeningly triumphant smile on her lips.

"In that case," she said, taking one step back, "I will take my leave."

She executed that smooth twirl on her foot once again, and began to walk away. "I'm sure we will see each other again, Athos," she declared, the sound of her heels echoing off the close walls on each side of the road. "That is the one thing we both can depend upon, it seems."

Darkness engulfed her, swallowing her whole, and her voice faded away along with the vision.

* * *

Quarter past six.

Craning his neck to see over the heads of the rowdy crowd in  _Le Baron Rouge,_ d'Artagnan mumbled a distracted  _hmm_  to the joke Porthos was telling, listening with only half an ear. Athos was fifteen minutes late to the hour of their meeting. It was nothing to worry about, as Aramis had pointed out; considering the deluge that had just broken, Athos had probably taken shelter somewhere to wait for the worst of it to pass. That would be the sensible thing to do.

Five minutes later, d'Artagnan finally spotted him slowly making his way through the crowd. Relieved, he stood up and a waved a hand, beckoning him to the table they shared at the rear of the room. When Athos approached and the light from the candelabra fell on his face, they immediately knew that something was wrong.

Porthos surged to his feet, all jokes forgotten, one hand straying to his pistol; d'Artagnan reached to grab Athos's arm, worry on his face, demanding to know what had happened. But the swordsman didn't look at them. Eyes downcast, he blinked rapidly under a frown. Long fingers trembled as he absently removed his gloves and left them on the table; his pallor alone was frightening.

"Are you injured?" Aramis questioned sharply. But Athos shook his head.

"I am unharmed."

He took a deep breath with visible effort, then pulled a chair and sat down. The others watched as he reached for the wine decanter, poured a cup and wordlessly drained it.

When he looked up again, he was suitably more composed.

"Milady de Winter," he said slowly, enunciating each word, "is in Paris. She just knocked out a woman, and stole her jewels in front of my eyes."

The news fell over the table like an unpleasant wave.

d'Artagnan was the first to react – by thumping both fists on the table. "She was supposed to be in England!" he groaned, the cups rattling on the tabletop, "What on earth is she doing back in Paris?"

"Great," Porthos grumbled, sitting back, "bloody brilliant - that woman's just what we needed. Who knows what she's up to now."

Aramis offered no comment, but was watching Athos very closely.

"Did she see you?" he asked levelly, the edges of his voice thin and sharp, containing a myriad of reactions to the answer he might receive. Blue-grey eyes looked up to him, but they were filled with such shocking  _guilt,_ Aramis winced at the unexpectedness of it.

"We had words," Athos confirmed in a very low voice.

"What happened, Athos?"

Athos wetted his lips before speaking again, hesitating almost as if measuring his words.

"I could have stopped this," came out of his mouth.

"Stopped what?"

Anguished eyes travelled from Aramis to the Gascon's face. "Stopped her from doing what she did. Stopped her from continuing on this path of murder and theft. Stopped her from _being her._ "

Involuntarily, a glance passed between Aramis and Porthos. They both knew that Athos held himself responsible for Milady's actions, but not since he had banished her from Paris had they seen the deep-rooted guilt resurface like this. Porthos, for one, had little patience when it came to Milady, but he wasn't without sympathy when his brother was so visibly shaken.

"Athos," he sighed, knowing he was also speaking for Aramis as he tried to capture his friend's gaze, "you 'aven't done anythin' wrong."

"But I  _did!"_  Athos hissed suddenly, eyes aflame as he rounded on Porthos, "I had the chance; I could have helped her turn away from this road. It was offered to me; I failed it!"

Porthos blinked, utterly taken aback. "What are you talking about?"

"I could have gone with her." The words tumbled from Athos's mouth out of his own accord. "Perhaps if I had gone with her.."

"Gone?" The others exchanged bemused glances. "Gone where?"

... Was it time to confess?

Athos licked his cracked lips, grabbed a bottle ferociously and took a long, desperate swig. He was more shaken than he cared to admit. And he could feel the weight of his friends' gazes on him.

But what had he had left that he could guard from them? What part of his soul had not been stripped bare before them until now? He didn't dare think about their reactions, but he was powerless to keep his shame from them.

With a familiar feeling of fatalism, he began to speak. He told them of what Anne had asked of him two years ago, what she had said about wanting to feel hope again. How tempted, how torn he had been at her offer of starting a new life. How he had left - and it was the most difficult thing he'd ever had to admit aloud, unable to raise his head as he told them of how he'd galloped after her in a desperate bid to reach the rendezvous point in time. How, for one long, sustained moment of madness, he had resolved to go the other way; swept by momentous insanity, rushed from the garrison to go to England with Anne.

But would he have been happy without his honour?

Had he reached the crossroads in time, looked into her eyes and remembered Thomas, and all the lies and deceit and every heinous crime she had ever committed, would he not have come to his senses?

His wife had given an ultimatum.  _If you don't come, you will never see me again._

The  _fool_  that he was, he had believed her.

He couldn't bear to voice the sheer weight that had slammed into his chest when he'd found the glove on the ground at the deserted junction. The hand that had squeezed his heart so tightly, he hadn't been able to draw breath for the longest time, head pounding, nails digging themselves into his palm where he'd clutched the glove that had dangled from his fist like an empty, dead thing. An unfulfilled promise. A slap across the face that would never land.

He had shoved that burning piece of his heart into the deepest crevices he could reach, and he'd remounted and returned to the garrison. He'd kept it concealed there, smouldering, sizzling, like lava under the mountains. He'd dumped the soil and grief of battle upon it and suppressed the smoke that would give it away.

He could not speak of it. And he couldn't raise his eyes to look at his friends.

Silence fell, heavy and full - the grumbling threat of a gathering storm.

Then, the  _thunk!_  of a pewter cup on the worn out wood, the scrape of a chair's legs on the floor, and Porthos rose. For one long, immeasurable second, the shadow of a mountain fell over their table, sucking out all the light.

"You would have left us," Porthos stated in terrifying calm, towering over the others' seated forms. Athos kept his silence.

Without another word, Porthos stepped back, turned, and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter Notes:**  
>  N. de Fer's 17th-century map shows that _Rue de Madurin_ was a relatively small street just north of _Rue de la Sorbonne_ ; there is a _Rue de Maturin in Paris_ today, but it's on the opposite bank of the Saine.
> 
> Google Maps shows that _Rue de la Harpe_ is a pretty small place. Not so N. de Fer's map. I've made it 'grand', but that's just me shaking a fist at probable reality.
> 
>  _Le Baron Rouge_ is a real place, very much modern, and very much not on _Rue Saint-Jacques_. I simply fancied the name!


	14. Epiphanies, Part I

* * *

  **Epiphanies (Part I)**

****

**~ * ~**

" _Athos?"_

_Porthos walked through the open door of the armoury and gave a tilt of his chin upon spotting his friend at the rear of the room. "Tréville said you'd be here. What's goin' on?"_

_Athos didn't respond. He was standing inert a few steps away from the wall, under a slanted ray of sunlight filtering through the high window behind him. His head was bowed, hands on his hips; his stance spoke of exasperation, an agitation of some kind, but for what, Porthos didn't know._

" _What's wrong?"_

_A sigh, then, without looking up, "Everything is wrong." Even as Porthos looked, the tension in his frame began to fade; the hands dropping from their perch, the rigidity of the shoulders thawing off, and Porthos randomly thought of watching snow melt in the forests of Savoy._

_Something twisted inside of him as he looked at his friend. He stood in indecision for only a moment, then turned, walked to the table at the back of the room, poured two cups from the bottle that always rested there for Musketeers on duty and sat._

" _Come over 'ere," he said. He looked up when Athos's didn't move, and repeated himself. "Come over 'ere and sit."_

_He waited patiently until Athos obeyed, walking over to him with stiff legs, then pushed one of the cups towards his friend._

" _This is about the captaincy, yeah?"_

 _He didn't receive a response, but had he expected one? Of course it was about the captaincy. Athos's promotion had been abrupt._ Every _damn thing had been abrupt these last few days – the declaration of war, Athos bein' made captain, Aramis leavin' –_

" _Look, Athos.. I get it. It's all been rather hasty. But we've got your back - you know that, right? You got nothin' to worry about."_

_Athos did not move or look up – neither did he reach for the wine, Porthos noted - but muttered, in that monotonous voice, towards the tabletop, "I'm not fit to lead."_

" _Aren't you?" The corner of Porthos's mouth wriggled for a moment before it flattened again. "An' what have you been doin' with us three all this time?"_

 _The comment drew a sharp look, a shrewd huff from Athos's lips. "I don't_ lead _you," he corrected, glaring, "_ you  _follow."_ _There was something almost accusatory, almost resentful in his eyes, but it only made Porthos smile again._

" _Ey," he nodded, "that's what happens when a man's what they call 'natural leader', brother. Whether you like it or not, you're one of 'em." He shrugged, speaking matter-of-factly. "This is just the king an' Tréville makin' it official after all this time - that's all."_

"Don't _do this, Porthos," Athos warned, "don't make me into something I am not."_

" _Oi - now that's rubbish an' you know it." Frowning, Porthos leaned over the table towards his friend. "You need to hear somethin', Athos, an' you better it hear it from me now. Those men outside? They would 'ave raised a riot if any man other than you were made captain. This isn't just the king an' Tréville appointin' you; we, your comrades, chose you to –"_

" _I don't_  want _this!" Athos hissed, hands shooting open on the table._

" _Ey, I_ know _." Porthos blinked, perplexed at the vehemence with which his friend was denying the situation._ What  _was happening? "Come now, Athos - do you really believe that_ Tréville _of all people made the wrong choice by elevatin' you?"_

 _Athos didn't reply, preserving a dithery silence instead, and Porthos allowed him, puzzled at the uncharacteristic resistance. They sat in silence for a while, Athos never raising his eyes, unmoving but coiled in his seat, and Porthos watched him, brow creasing more and more as he wondered about his friend's state of mind. He could understand Athos being rattled – no one would deny that the promotion was a big responsibility – but surely the idea of command would not stir such agitation in_ Athos,  _of all people._

_What was Porthos missing?_

_Long moments stretched, silence elongating, elongating between them until it thinned out and broke._

" _I cannot do this."_

_It was a whisper._

" _I cannot do this, Porthos."_

" _Oi."_

_Properly worried now, Porthos quickly leaned over the table again, capturing his friend's restless eyes with his own._

" _Athos, I don' know what it is that you're needin' to hear right now. So I'm just gonna tell you this. You're me brother, Athos – you're our brother. Whatever happens in the upcomin' days, you've got to know that I've got your back. That d'Artagnan's got your back. An' whether you believe it or not, the regiment's got your back. We've followed you for years already; not once did you lead us astray. So know this.. d'Artagnan an' I? We'll follow you to hell if that's where you lead us."_

_Athos's shoulders drooped. His entire body slowly bowed, like a plant given too much water at one time, overcome._

" _Hell is where we're going, anyway," he whispered, his voice like shattered glass._

" _Then what do we 'ave to lose?"_

_Athos looked up in surprise, and a grin pulled at Porthos's mouth as he shrugged. "Just another day as a Musketeer."_

_Never mind that the words rung wrong to Porthos's own ears. How would there be any more 'just another day's without Aramis by their side? 'Just another day's fighting a war without Aramis at their side? But Porthos ignored the thought. He pushed his chair back and stood, walking around the table to stand next to his friend, and laid a warm hand on the back of Athos's neck. He could do nothing about the brother that had left, but he was here for the ones who still stayed._

" _There's somethin' else you're not sayin'," he ruminated quietly, letting the weight of his hand settle on Athos's neck, heavy and grounding. "Somethin's eatin' at you but you're not gonna say what." He sighed, his other hand coming to perch on Athos's shoulder and absently began to knead tense muscles there. "Keep it if you want to, Athos, you know I ain' one to pry. But brother, we're goin' into war. A war that you will lead us into. You've got to have a clear head. Whatever this is, you need to sort it out, an' you need to do it now... That's all I'm gonna say to you on that."_

_With a final squeeze, he let his hands drop and stepped back._

" _I'll see you downstairs," he said, "Captain."_

_And he left._

_That would be the first time anyone would ever call Athos that._

* * *

The tension in the air was so thick, even King Louis did not fail to notice it.

As the bells of the Notre-Dame struck the last chime to announce mid-day on October 9th, King Louis XIII stepped out from a tiny servant's entry overlooking an enclosed garden with a gentleman's hat on his head, the purple plume of which arched backwards as it brushed up against the lintel when he bent his head to cross the threshold. Stepping out onto the lawn, he squinted for a moment in the sunlight; then, pulling out a pair of riding gloves, he began to put them on, glaring at the coarse material - which wasn't very coarse at all - as if the mere act of touching his skin was a gross offense on the part of the glove.

The deed complete, he looked up at the five grim-faced men waiting for him in formation by the road.

"Is everything well, Captain?" he inquired in an undertone, glancing at Athos from under the brim of his hat.

"Perfectly, your majesty," came the stiff reply. The king quirked an eyebrow; perhaps he was not fully convinced, but seemed content to take Athos's word it. He walked to his horse with sprightly steps, the reins of which were being held by Porthos, and swung himself up with an agility few ever got to witness in his person.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, looking regally over his travelling companions; his face was carefully solemn, but poorly-concealed excitement shone in his eyes. "We have a long way to cover. Let us away." And he yanked the reins of his horse to turn it around and started towards the gate.

Without need for words – or, this once, without even sharing a glance - the four Inseperables and General Toussaine manoeuvred their steeds to take positions around the king, and in a gloomy silence that Louis was too preoccupied to care for, the journey to Rambouillet began.

* * *

The first leg of their journey, to be completed in three hours if it all went according to plan, was a speedy ride to Orsay, a small town in  _Vallée de Chevreuse_ , mid-way between Paris and Rambouillet. The heavy rains had softened the earth and turned the roads into ugly thick ribbons of mud, but the horses, selected from the king's own stables, were majestic animals which had little difficulty trudging over the mire. They had decided that the king would travel on horseback instead of in a carriage – an idea that was eagerly heralded by Louis – both for speed and as a safety precaution: a company of six men travelling on horseback would attract much less unwarranted attention than four men guarding a carriage, no matter how plain.

"Captain," d'Artagnan called. "Athos?"

It was two hours after they'd left the city walls behind, and they were passing through the outskirts of Versailles. A few miles ahead, they would be meeting Aubin, one of the Musketeers in charge of securing the second stretch of this first part of the journey, the road between Versailles and Orsay. As they had been riding at a steady, fast-paced canter, they needed to slow down lest they missed Aubin – or he missed them. d'Artagnan glanced at Athos when the latter didn't call for them to ease the gait and had to call out twice to get his attention.

Athos threw him an inquiring look, but seemed to understand before d'Artagnan could speak. He lifted a hand to signal the king and General Toussaine, who were riding behind him and d'Artagan, and Aramis and Porthos, who were bringing up the rear.

The king steered his horse closer to the captain's.

"Why have we slowed?"

"We must confirm that the road ahead is safe, majesty. We will meet a Musketeer from the unit that has been patrolling the road to Orsay. Once we're sure the area is clear, we will pick up the pace once again."

"Very well," the king approved, inclining his head. He had been openly relishing the ride, the freedom of being outside of Paris and of the confines of a king's attire. General Toussaine, for his own part, seemed to be in a permanent state of deep thought, so much so that he looked as though he wouldn't react if hell broke loose and fire started raining down on them.

Bringing two fingers to his mouth, d'Artagnan blew two short, shrill whistles in rapid succession. A few seconds later, a long, swooping tune was whistled back to them. d'Artagnan's eyes found Athos's and the captain gave a slight nod.

They found Aubin waiting for them about a mile ahead, atop his horse just within a grove formed by a group of drunken chestnut trees guarding the road. d'Artagnan broke away from the group to ride on to meet him; none of the Musketeers was wearing their blue cloaks, their pauldrons hidden under much less attention-drawing ones. As d'Artagnan approached Aubin under the shade, the Musketeer, himself in full uniform, relaxed and nodded in greeting.

"d'Artagnan."

"Aubin," d'Artagnan nodded back. "Anything to report?"

"A couple of robbery attempts, but mostly we're just bored." Aubin shrugged, smiling lopsidedly. He was supporting big, dark circles around his eyes, sure signs of weariness after days of patrolling in the countryside. Then he sobered. "The road to Orsay is as safe as it can be. The men are on patrol as we speak. You're good to go."

"That's good to know," d'Artagnan said, satisfied, and saluting the man, returned to the company to pass the news. Thus reassured, they eased their mounts to an easy trot for a short while, to preserve the animals' strength for the rest of the ride.

Until then, barring the king's spontaneous remarks on mundane things and Toussaine's stinted responses to them, the journey had passed in solemn reticence. Precious little had been said between the four Inseperables since the previous night, when Porthos had left the tavern fuming after Athos's admission. The revelation had left each of them with something to think about. d'Artagnan, for his own part, had been the one to walk Athos back to his rooms at  _Rue Férou,_  after Aramis, breaking the long, awkward silence that had fallen with Porthos's abrupt exit, had excused himself, casting Athos was seemed to be an apologetic look, and left. d'Artagnan had watched as Athos had grabbed a full cup and drained it with greed, the clenched fingers around the cup the only sign betraying self-directed anger; then, with a long sigh, his eyelids had dropped close. d'Artagnan had recognized it all too well, he had watched Athos do this countless times these past few years. Just as he knew it would, when Athos looked to him again, the blue gaze was once again calm, even if he looked like it had cost him a few months from his life. He'd taken up his hat and stood.

" _So far as missions go," he had said quietly, "this didn't make the most auspicious start. For that I apologize."_

And allowed d'Artagnan to walk him home, although he'd not said another word.

The Gascon had returned his wife fully preoccupied with the revelation of the night. Something told him that he, d'Artagnan, should too feel anger, at least some indignation at the thought (how  _abandoned_ he would feel if Athos had left like that!) – but found, a bit surprisingly, that he did not. Because there are no secrets between husband and wife, he'd confided in Constance with what had transpired, and then, the mere presence of his wife in his arms had made him realize - or perhaps, to  _refine -_ a few important things.

" _If it were you waiting for me on the other side, I would not hesitate to throw everything aside to come and be with you."_

_They were lying quietly in the large four-poster bed, snuggled under the sheets in Constance's cosy room in the queen's apartments at the Louvre._

_The suddenness of his pronouncement had Constance raising her head to look at him with wide, wonder-filled eyes. As he gazed down at the beautiful woman in his arms, the sentiment firmly cemented itself in d'Artagnan's heart._

" _If I were in Athos's boots," he elaborated with quiet determination, looking directly into Constance's eyes, "being just made captain, given all that responsibility, and if I could only be with you by pushing all that aside.. I'd choose you."_

" _d'Artagnan…"_

 _He felt her profound surprise, felt her smile broadly against his chest -almost_ despite  _herself-, just before she buried her face into the crook of his neck. Her arm around him tightened, holding him to herself as though she would never let go again._ Constance  _loved him for the sentiment, loved him for the declaration – and loved him with the full expanse of her heart for that glimpse of youthful naivete in her husband's words, the very thing she would have thought they both had already lost, the thing she would have feared had been tempered and eroded by the battles and war. She would never, ever leave him in a position to choose - not if she could help it._

_d'Artagnan pressed a kiss on top of her curls._

" _What about your friends?" she couldn't help but wonder after a little while, her warm breath breezing softly over his skin, "You lot are more like brothers than friends. Would you really be happy if you'd left them behind like that?"_

" _If I had you," he returned quietly, but with determination. "So long as I'm with you, it is worth everything, Constance. You are worth everything." It was as if the words were uttering themselves, rather than d'Artagnan formulating them._

_But even as he spoke, a stab of something poked at him, like the point of a rapier one of his friends nicked him with when they sparred. d'Artagnan frowned as the weight of his own pronouncement began to sink in, and he fell into deep thought._

_If he ever had to make such a choice – chose Constance over his friends and left without a word... Somehow, he couldn't imagine his brothers being endlessly angry with him. Yes, they would feel betrayed; yes, they would be hurt - how many years would it take for Porthos to utter his name without cursing it? - what an unpleasant thought this was even just to entertain!.. And to think that Milady had forced Athos's hand to make just such a choice.. But deep down, d'Artagnan knew that if it were him, no matter how long it would take, his brothers would find it in themselves to forgive him. Because d'Artagnan had always been d'Artagnan – he never did anything by halves. His brothers knew it; they knew_ him _, better than anyone else in the world. This was just who the Gascon was._

_And just like that, in a moment of unexpected epiphany, d'Artagnan suddenly understood the reason why Porthos had reacted so badly to Athos's past intent._

_What he'd intended to do was nothing like Athos at all._

_Porthos's hurt had less to do with everything Milady had done to Athos or to France; it had much more to do with the fact that throwing_ duty  _and_  honour _aside in a momentary loss of reason didn't sound like Athos at all. Athos didn't have whims; he was a master of control, he was a man_ defined _by duty and contoured by his brothers - for him to throw them aside would be to… to_  dissolve _… to disintegrate.._

_It was inconceivable._

_Going away with the love of his life when forced into a choice between her and a war was the kind of thing_ d'Artagnan _would have done._

God..

_All those years ago Athos had told him that he -d'Artagnan- was more like him -Athos- than he knew. Was this what he'd meant? Had he meant the Comte de la Fére, the man he'd buried deep within himself, rather than the Musketeer Athos, the man at the present?_

Dear God, Athos.

 _d'Artagnan's stomach clenched. He'd never once entertained the thought before – that it had been the young, impassioned Olivier d'Athos that d'Artagnan had never known who had seen a kindred spirit in him; not Athos, the experienced Musketeer lieutenant with an eye out for talent. Athos had really seen something of himself in d'Artagnan – a part of himself that he had long ago buried. The realization was as pleasantly heart-warming as it was oddly nauseating - it made d'Artagnan_ ache _for his friend._

" _You boys will sort it out," Constance whispered with confidence, resting a soft cheek just below his collarbone as she peered up at him, "You're_ brothers. _Porthos will come around, you'll see."_

" _Of course he will," d'Artagnan agreed, grimacing as he said, without real malice, "I've seen what he was like after Aramis had left. I've no desire for an encore!"_

Neither was he any more keen on preludes.

"You know, I lay awake last night thinking about what you told us."

d'Artagnan kept his voice to a low pitch, trusting the soothing  _clop-clop_  of the horses' hooves and the gentle hush of rustling leaves to keep the conversation contained between the two of them as they rode a little distance ahead of the others.

"My apologies for keeping you from your rest," Athos returned unperturbedly.

"I won't badger you with questions, in case you're worried."

"That is a relief, and you have my heartfelt gratitude." The tone was so dry, it tugged at d'Artagnan's cheeks until he smiled. They rode in quietude for a while.

"Athos?"

He received a mild rise of an eyebrow.

"Would you really have gone with her? Milady?"

A few heartbeats passed. A few moments that might have been either too short or too long; then Athos said, softly, "No. It wasn't a thought, d'Artagnan." He threw a glance at the younger man, eyes impossibly sad. "It was a moment of insanity; nothing more."

d'Artagnan nodded.

"It must have been difficult to miss her at the crossroads," he offered after a while. "Not getting to say goodbye."

Another sharp beat, then - "As it turns out, one wasn't needed, anyway."

"Well," said d'Artagnan, shrugging half-apologetically, "she  _is_ a bit of a bad penny."

A surprised huff flew from Athos's lips – something very nearly resembling a laugh – and such a rare treasure that was, d'Artagnan found himself grinning from ear to ear this time.

"Bad penny my wife is," Athos concurred, an amused smile playing on his lips; but alas, it vanished very quickly, and green eyes clouded over again. "I do not know for how long we'll remain stationed in Paris. If my wife has indeed found another patron as she claims, Tréville will have to be on his guard. Porthos is right. There's no knowing what she may be up to this time."

"Tréville will deal with her," d'Artagnan returned confidently. He wasn't any less wary about Milady, but for the moment, he was more imminently concerned for his friend than for France or the crown.

"Do you think she'll seek revenge on you again? For failing to meet her that day?"

"I do not know," Athos replied, eyes fixed on the road ahead. He truly did not know. After half a bottle of good quality wine in the calming solitude of his rooms, he had fortified his shaken spirits and replayed his meeting with Anne over and over in his mind. There had been something indecipherable in his wife that night; a distance, a guardedness which filled Athos's heart with a cold dread when he remembered it. But a thirst for vengeance? That burning hatred she'd exhumed in the days after they'd come face to face years ago outside the Bastille; that hate that had twisted Athos's path and had him face down a firing squad, and would have had him murdered by a young man he'd come to regard as a brother – had that been there, too? No... On the contrary, it was the absence of that wrath that was now putting Athos on edge. He couldn't guess what his 'failure', as d'Artagnan had put it, to meet her at the crossroads might have done to Milady - and frankly, he realized in surprising clarity, he did not want to think about it.

He was weary. He was simply too weary of Milady.

"You do know that Porthos isn't upset because you thought of going with her."

Athos's eyebrows rose slightly. "No?"

"He's upset because you thought of going, period."

"He has the right," Athos mused. d'Artagnan loathed the note of defeat in his voice, a tint of rust on a steel blade. "But it is not my shame that I thought of going."

"No?"

"No." The voice dipped so low, he had to strain to catch the next words. "It is that  _she_  still has such power over me."

A tiny muscle twitched and shrivelled in d'Artagnan's heart. Before he knew what he was doing, he steered his horse close to Athos's and reached out a hand to clasp his friend's leg, with an insuppressible need to relay to him that he understood, that  _he_  did not judge. Athos did not react, his head slightly bowed, face concealed by the tilt of his hat; d'Artagnan reasserted the natural distance between their steeds and the conversation closed.

* * *

In true seventeenth-century military fashion, they reached Orsay ten minutes after the church bells struck three. A further four-minute ride on the thoroughfare brought them to  _La Couronne d'Or_ , the main inn of the town, where the company would take a short repas and change horses. Orders had been sent the day before to the head of the stables in the Château de Versailles to make ready and station six mounts at the inn; the innkeeper had been entrusted with a password and ordered to look after the animals 'as though they were the king's own'. As speed was of the essence, well-rested and well-conditioned horses were indispensable for the mission.

 _La Couronne_   _d'Or,_ a respectable, double-fronted inn on  _Rue de Chevreuse,_  was usually frequented by the more  _genteel_  and well-to-do folk who travelled the road between Paris and Chartres. The innkeeper and his wife greeted the king's company with a  _savoir-faire_  that bespoke the establishment's fine reputation, but also with the tell-tale sign of wariness in their eyes as they perceived of the curt manners and grim faces of the Musketeers-in-disguise. With a minimum of fuss, the weary horses were taken to the stables by three men who appeared to be masters of their trade, and the company were shown into the inn's common room, which turned out to be a pleasant, large hall with wood-inlaid walls, a high, vaulted ceiling and a magnificent fireplace that spoke of the building's former grandeur. Within minutes, King Louis - that is, le Marquis de Harcourt, as he was introduced to their hosts - was sat at the best table in the house, enjoying a perfectly-acceptable meal without a thought of complaint. When he wasn't chatting amiably with the innkeeper's wife or the other guests at the inn, Porthos and General Toussaine humoured him with tales from the battlefield, keeping the conversation light and unassuming.

On a second, smaller table nearby, Athos sat across from d'Artagan, eyes carefully scanning the room as he calmly sipped his wine. With a habit long ingrained in soldiers, they had eaten quickly and were now waiting for Aramis to return from the stables where he had gone to check on the horses. When he returned to the front hall five minutes later, the others immediately knew that he didn't bring good news.

The marksman slid into the chair next to d'Artagnan and leaned in.

"Trouble," he declared.

"What is it?"

"The stables are empty – the horses are gone. According to the innkeeper, two men came just before noon with a sealed letter from Tréville, ordering the release of the animals into their care. They took the horses and rode off towards Chartres."

"An order from Tréville?" d'Artagnan frowned, "Did they have the password?"

"No, but the letter must have looked genuine enough – forgery, no doubt. How hard can it be to fool the innkeeper?"

"This is not good," Athos murmured, eyes troubled as he glanced towards the king's table, "Someone knows the king is here and that we're going to Rambouillet. Not only that, they also know our route."

"How is that possible? We only drew the plan yesterday; no one beside us and Tréville knows of it!"

But neither Athos, not Aramis had the answer to that. The three friends exchanged an uneasy look, then, as one, their eyes turned towards the king's table, alighting on General Toussaine. But Athos immediately broke the gaze and shook his head.

"We'll worry about the 'who' later. Right now, we must decide on how to proceed." He stood and walked over to the king, and the others watched as he asked for permission, sat down next to Porthos and informed them of the situation. The king, upon hearing the news, drew back from the table, a look of affront and anger on his face, and responded animatedly. Toussaine said a few words, but to both Aramis and d'Artagnan, the lines of worry that appeared on his face seemed genuine enough. Between the total of seven men who knew of the itinerary of this journey, Toussaine was the only one whom they could possibly suspect, although, hearing of Tréville's trust in the man, both Aramis and d'Artagnan felt the need to be cautious and guarded with their doubts about the General.

A few minutes later, Athos returned with Porthos in tow, leaving the king fuming and Toussaine stone-faced beside him.

"Louis is adamant we continue to Rambouillet," he reported, the grim line of his mouth betraying his thoughts on the matter. "d'Artagnan, Porthos. Talk to the innkeeper; scour the town to find us fresh horses. Return within the hour."

"This will cost us time," d'Artagnan noted as he rose and clipped on his pistol, "Even if we do find horses here, they won't be as fast as the king's own. Should we send word to the castle, inform them of the delay?"

"No," Aramis quickly shook his head, "If somebody's taken the horses, they may as well be watching the inn. A lone rider taking off towards Rambouillet will draw attention."

"I don' like this," Porthos grumbled, casting a look towards Athos, "If the inn is bein' watched, forcin' us to split may as well be their plan. We'll be playin' right into their hands."

Athos dipped his head in acceptance, but the king had given the order and their options were limited. He relayed as much to his friends. "Without fresh horses, we're stuck here for at least three hours, until our horses are rested enough to bear us again. If we're left in peace until then, we still won't make it to Rambouillet in two hours as planned - not only that, but if we're attacked on the road, we'll have no chance of outrunning the enemy." The blue gaze fleeted from Aramis to d'Artagnan to Porthos. "In either case, we need fresh horses. Go. Be careful. We'll hold the fort here." Then he looked to Aramis. "I'll talk to the innkeeper, find out what else he knows. You stay with the king. Try and prevent him from engaging in conversation with anyone, see what you can learn about the other guests."

Aramis dipped his head and the four friends exchanged a look: a well-practised conversation without words, relaying concern, advising caution and promising to meet up in one piece - and dispersed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _With thanks to **pallysdeeks** over at ff.net for the 'bad penny' line._
> 
> **Chapter Notes:**  
>  The land around Orsay was owned by the Boucher family, though the town and lands were called by a different name until Louis XIV renamed it “Quai d’Orsay”. Despite some attempt at research, I took liberties about the distances and the speed with which a horse can be ridden at a given amount of time. Finally, while it goes without saying that Monsieur Dumas’s novels are the inspiration for this story, in this chapter in particular, I drew upon the numerous scenes in _The Three Musketeers_ in which there are incidents with horses at the inns.
> 
> The second part will hopefully be up the other weekend. Thanks for reading.


	15. Epiphanies, Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the tardiness - life got in the way. Here we are, picking up from where the previous chapter was left.

* * *

**Epiphanies (** **Part** **II)**

As it happened, their worries turned out to be unfounded. The innkeeper, Monsieur Barrois, after being subjected to some of Athos's most intimidating glares, turned out to know nothing further regarding the matter. He repeated the story he had told Aramis: two men, gentlemanly enough in dress and manners, armed with a sealed letter from Minister Tréville, had come before noon, taken the horses without hassle and ridden away. He seemed so genuine in the telling of his tale, and so dismayed at having caused 'an inconvenience' to his guests, that in the end, Athos was convinced of the man's sincerity. Aramis declared that everyone he chatted with at the inn seemed to be men about their businesses -nothing to raise suspicion-, and just five minutes over the one hour Athos had given d'Artagnan and Porthos, the two Musketeers turned up with six horses in tow, having met no one to hinder their efforts in the town. On the contrary, to their profound luck, the horses were procured from the stables of the Comte de Boucher, who owned the land on which the town of Orsay was sprawled. Upon seeing the pauldron of the King's Musketeers and hearing that a certain  _marquis_  was left stranded at the inn, the old man hadn't hesitated in lending them well-groomed mounts, upon the promise that the animals be returned once they were no longer required.

The king was pleased that the problem was solved swiftly. Unperturbed that the incident was a potent sign of further trouble on the road, he even bestowed a rare "Nicely done, gentlemen," on his Musketeers. But none of his Musketeers thought that the incident could be dismissed as easily: simple horse-theft, as much of 'an inconvenience' as it would be, would have raised much less suspicion. Why, each of them was thinking, had these men gone the trouble of forging a letter from Tréville? Was it to ensure the innkeeper's cooperation, to avoid having alarm raised, so they - whoever  _they_ were - could get away without pursuit? If yes, the objective seemed to be to delay the king's arrival at Rambouillet. And yet, if that were the case, Aramis wondered aloud as the four friends gathered in a tight group outside the inn to deliberate, wouldn't perpetrators elaborate enough to forge a seal and play a smooth ruse to fool the innkeeper, also make sure that the horse problem wouldn't be solved as easily as Porthos and d'Artagnan had managed?

What was the purpose?

Would the company be riding into a trap?

And how ironic it was, Athos noted with a touch of bitterness, with that odd sense of  _déja-vu_  thumping onto his chest yet again, that these were the same questions they had been plagued with after the two ambushes in Bonnecourt and outside Metz! So far as intuition went, he had no doubt that the Spanish were behind this as well, but the  _who_ , as he had remarked earlier, was the least urgent part of the puzzle for now. When the company finally set out on the road again, they had fallen nearly two hours behind schedule: it meant that the last leg of the journey through the forest of Rambouillet would have to be undertaken in the dark. The Musketeers attempted one more time to dissuade the king from proceeding, or to at least wait while two of them went to scout ahead, meet up with the Musketeers patrolling the area and report back, but Louis rejected their cornern, arguing that losing even more time was not an option, and pointed out that he did not know his best Musketeers to shirk their duty.

Captain Athos, ever the master of calm, collected poise, earned himself an appraising look from General Toussaine when he met the king's barbed remarks with nothing but a curt nod. The general did not know that the Musketeers had years of practice with it!

Half an hour after they departed from Orsay, the sun had already dipped below the horizon, leaving the pale blue sky streaked with orange and red around the edges. Twilight settled over the French countryside, the cluster of trees marking the beginning of the forest in the distance already looking like a single block of blackness warning the travellers to keep away, to not brace its depths in the absence of light. But the five men rode fast in tight formation around the king, and as they neared the trees, the captain once again raised a fist to signal them to slow down. They would be meeting Dominique here, another Musketeer from the patrolling unit, and take his report on the safety of the road.

Slightly further ahead of the others, d'Artagnan and Athos brought their mounts to a stop for the second time that day. Dominique should be waiting for them there, just a mile before the beginning of the forest. Bringing a hand to his mouth, d'Artagnan blew the designated whistle.

There was no answer.

When d'Artagnan blew for a second time, and it, too, was similarly met with silence, the two Musketeers exchanged a quick, loaded look. Without need for words, they pulled the reins in a synchronized move and nudged their mounts toward opposite directions: Athos turned left even as d'Artagnan manoeuvred right, and carefully, the two men scanned the shadows on both sides of the deserted road. Behind them, at a standstill, Porthos was holding his pistol pressed across his chest, wary eyes not missing a single falling leaf, ears catching every rustle and every snap of a twig. General Toussaine's hand was on the hilt of his sword, and Aramis sat motionless, his very posture radiating warning danger.

A minute later, d'Artagnan and Athos's horses converged again on the road.

Dominique wasn't at his post. Something was badly wrong.

"Well," said the king, breaking the taut silence with a concern he was unable to hide, "What does this mean?"

"That it is too dangerous to proceed, Sire. We should turn back."

"Out of the question," the king flatly refused.

"With respect, your majesty–" Toussaine made to interfere -

"If it is too dangerous, Athos, then we shall brave the danger together; it is as simple as that."

The skin around Athos's eyes crinkled at the response. Aramis craned his neck to look at the king and Porthos's brows knit together as his nostrils flared.

"I have had enough of hiding behind my men like an incompetent fool," Louis announced unexpectedly, a quiet timbre to his voice, but his eyes daring the men to defy him. "I am a king and shall fight if necessary. We will reach the chateau and I will see this business through; unless you think that I can't fight –  _don't_  answer that," he added quickly, pointing a finger with a glare; then he sobered again. "Our task is too important for us to turn back now. I will not have it be said that I have shirked my own duty to France. Am I making myself clear?"

"Very well, your majesty," Athos returned, giving a perfectly decent bow to the king while still sat atop his horse. The others mimicked him, with varying degrees of surprise, appreciation and pride reflected in their eyes.

"Well, then," said Louis, sitting up and gripping the reins, "Let's not waste more time. Lead the way, Captain."

And they set out once again.

The Musketeers lit the torches they had procured from the inn and the company had to slow their pace in the narrow, winding path through the woods. The king himself was well-acquainted with this forest, as he frequently enjoyed hunting on these grounds, but since their current task was as different from that kingly pleasure as it was, Louis, despite himself, quickly fell under the tense alertness of his road companions.

The forest, under the collective light of the torches, turned into a large, orange-and-black stage for shadowplay.

Some twenty minutes after they'd entered the woods, Aramis's tightly controlled voice rose from the rear of the group.

"Hold - hold!"

"What is it?" Athos questioned with a frown.

"Look at the tracks."

Signalling d'Artagnan to remain where he was, the captain pulled the reins and turned his horse around. Aramis was leaning sideways in the saddle of his horse, holding the torch down, close towards the ground; Athos approached and squinted in the harsh light to see what had drawn his attention. At first look, he could distinguish noting on the ground; but closer scrutiny revealed that the grass was trampled at the side of the road; the earth, softened after days of rain, was stamped with a mixture of hoof and boot prints, some pristine, some disrupted as if in a scuffle. Athos slid from the saddle, crouched down for a closer look, then raised his eyes to Aramis. Only the marksman's keen eyes could have caught these signs in the tender dark of the evening. A dip of the chin beckoned Aramis to dismount even as Athos rose.

"Stay close to the king," he murmured to d'Artagnan and Porthos, more out of habit than of necessity, and with Aramis in tow, he stepped under the trees to investigate.

The torches in their hands hissed and sputtered in the quiet, twigs and foliage cracking underfoot as they advanced deeper into the forest. Not a word was spoken aloud. Some fifty feet in from the pathway, Aramis pointed a finger to the ground, showing a brief but smooth trail in the undergrowth. Something, or someone, had been dragged through there. A few cautious steps further, their eyes alighted on two lumpy silhouettes huddled together under a tree just ahead.

Exchanging yet another look, well aware that they might be walking into a trap, nevertheless, the two men approached.

When the light of the torches illuminated the figures enough to reveal their identities, a harsh breath left Athos's lips.

"My God, Dominique."

For it was the missing Musketeer, slumped bonelessly against the chiselled tree trunk, head tipped back and eyes closed; his hands were in his lap, dark patches of dried blood sticking to one side of the slackened face. The Musketeer was still - too still to inspire hope that anything could be done for him; Athos spared a glance at the second man sunk by Dominique's side, and took in the uniform that marked him as a King's Guard's before snatching his glove off and sneaking two fingers under his Musketeer's chin.

The moment his hand contacted the chilled, clammy skin, Dominique's eyes flew open with a start.

Panic and confusion flashed and faded within the span of two heartbeats as the man's gaze alighted on Athos, and pale lips moved.

No sound came.

Athos's hand shifted to the back of Dominique's neck as he leaned in close. Relief passed through the stricken man's face, like a quick breeze on an autumn day; the relief of seeing a familiar face at the hour of one's death, then the light faded in his eyes and quietly, he passed.

Gliding down over the grove, death draped itself over them like a veil.

_Six Musketeers._

Dominique, and Valois.

_Rimabult and Pinchon, and Thévenot, and Cormier, and what of the rest of the patrol - were they alive and hale?_

_Athos had promised himself not to lose any more men like this._

_He was a_ fool.

 _S_ uch _a fool._

His eyes snapped opened and he turned his head to see Aramis blessing their dead comrades, lips moving in silent prayer. He pushed himself to his feet, his face a hard, inscrutable mask, not a hint of emotion to be glimpsed through a crack. Aramis looked up and caught his friend's eye, and knowing there was nothing to be said  _or_  done, they returned to the road to inform the others of their grim discovery.

There wasn't any need for further discussion on how to proceed. They were already inside the forest now, and by this time, back-tracking had become almost as dangerous as pushing on. So without wasting any more breath on words, they resumed the journey, alarmed, angered, and by this point, very much ready for a fight.

It was not, therefore, as much a pleasant surprise as a further troubling one, when, after nearly two hours of riding through the woods, they emerged on the large, gently sloping clearing in which the chateau was sprawled, having encountered no one else on the road - dead or alive. No danger bigger than fallen logs were met, or any further sign glimpsed of further skirmish under the trees. Clocks were chiming quarter to nine as the company were welcomed at the grand stairs of the main entrance by a very anxious-looking Marquis de Rambouillet, and ushered inside a large, lavish parlour. The king shed his outer garments and deposited cloak, hat and gloves into the arms of a waiting footman while breathlessly inquiring after their 'guests'.

The Marquis de Rambouillet threw a glance towards the four Musketeers standing several paces behind the king and Toussaine, as if wondering how much the king's guards knew of whom the king was meeting. He opened his mouth to speak, but the king beat him to it.

"Oh well, since we're finally here, we mustn't keep them waiting any longer. The German are so punctual; let us hope we haven't offended them by our tardiness, Toussaine. Marquis? I assume you have dinner waiting for us. Have our guests eaten? If not, it is best if we discussed our business over dinner. Frankly I am starving, and we have not a second more to lose to get down to it. Lead the way, if you would?"

In the meantime, the four friends were conversing among themselves in hushed tones just within the entrance.

"First a forged letter from Tréville, then dead Musketeers under trees," Aramis said in a smoky undertone, anger lurking in his eyes although his face was composed. "It is as if they're taunting us."

"Either that or they're waiting for the right time to attack," d'Artagnan opined with a matching tone, himself seeming still ready for a fight as he swiped a hand over his mouth. Porthos's eyes were raking the room, moving from one corner to another as though he suspected men would jump at them from behind the giant vases and varnished consoles.

"Whichever it is, we will discover soon enough." Athos sighed, removing his own gloves as he felt the first strands of the fatigue of the day beginning to catch up with him. He had no doubt the others were feeling the same.

"We are here now," he said, looking up at his friends, "We should see about the castle and talk to the marquis's staff, find out if anyone has encountered any other Musketeers today –"

"Are you coming, Captain?"

The four friends turned as one as King Louis's voice flew over them, interrupting the small conference they were holding. Athos broke away from the group and approached the other three men inquiringly.

"You will be joining us," the king said shortly.

Athos's brow creased as he blinked at the unexpected command. His lips parted, but he seemed to think better of voicing his thoughts, instead -in a span of two quick seconds- he settled for giving the king a curt bow.

"If your Majesty would grant me but a moment," he said, and without waiting for a response, turned on his heel to address the Marquis de Rambouillet.

"Monsieur," he said, "two of my men who have been assigned to patrol the forest on your lands have been found dead, about ten miles in from the beginning of the forest on the road from Orsay. I would consider it a kindness if you could send men to retrieve their bodies, to be taken to the Musketeer garrison in Paris at first light. I'm afraid we cannot spare the time to see to our comrades ourselves, but I would not have them left unattended in the wild."

"Indeed," said the king approvingly, one shiny-buckled shoe on the first step of a flight of stairs, one hand resting lightly on the bannister, "See to it, Marquis. These men have given their lives in the service of their king. The least we can do is to show them the respect they deserve."

"I will see it done, Sire. Captain," the marquis bowed. Athos nodded courteously in return, and the captain, the marquis, the general and the king climbed the marble steps, disappearing into the second floor, out from sight.

Left alone in the parlour with a servant waiting to attend on them, the three Inseperables took a moment to exchange looks.

"Looks like our captain is moving up in the king's graces," Aramis pointed out with a pleased smile curling the corner of his mouth.

"Better good and honest men like Athos and Tréville than the likes of Richelieu and Rochefort," d'Artagnan returned with feeling.

"You're a man after my own heart, my friend."

"Remember you said that the next time he keeps somethin' from us."

The two friends looked up sharply at the unexpected barb from their third, but as soon as the words left Porthos's mouth, a flash of regret passed through his face. "Come on," he sighed, shaking his head exasperatedly, and turned towards the awaiting servant. "Let's get somethin' to eat. I can't be the only one that's starved."

* * *

The marquis's staff catered to the three Musketeers' needs as though they were not guards, but the king's personal guests. Dinner was a suitably ostentatious affair, clearly designed to wow and impress, but being so, it only managed to produced the opposite effect: for three seasoned soldiers, each from humble backgrounds and far too well-acquainted with the hardships and depravity of war, the display of such needless waste was, courteously put, utterly tasteless. They ate humbly and quickly, and spoke little other than briefly speculating on who might have leaked their itinerary ("What do we think about General Toussaine?", "Athos says Tréville trusts him.", "That's fine, but I don' think the king himself spoke to anyone about our plans. So who does that leave?", "... No one?"). Then, they spoke to the staff: no other Musketeers were sighted during the day or the day before - which was not particularly alarming, as the men hadn't been ordered to touch base at the chateau - and nothing had happened to raise any concern about the security of the land. So, after a disappointingly unproductive hour and a half, the three friends resigned to retiring for the night. There would be no telling how long the king's mysterious meeting would last.

Two rooms had been allocated to them on the second floor of the chateau, straight across from two other rooms for the king and General Toussaine. The 'guests' – Germans, as the king had let slip – would be staying at the other wing of the castle. d'Artagnan picked one of the rooms for himself and Athos, and Aramis and Porthos took the other one.

It was a small room, sparsely but beautifully decorated with two beds, a large chiffonier, a small desk at one side and a single chair. Porthos removed his weapons one by one without speaking, and promptly lowered himself onto one of the beds. It had been a long day, and it would be an even longer one tomorrow, so he just wanted to sleep. Aramis, however, seemed to have other ideas.

The marksman broke the silence that had been stubbornly clinging between them, stretching on his back on the opposite bed one arm under his head.

"You've been very quite all day."

His tone was careful, but held no pretence at casualness. There was an elephant in the room that had to be addressed and neither men were particularly good at beating around the bush.

Porthos gave a disgruntled hum.

"Is it about Athos?"

"What if it is?"

"Porthos..." Aramis drew one knee up, turning his head towards Porthos to look at his friend. "Athos would never have walked out on you for Milady. I think you already know that."

"Yeah, well," Porthos grumbled, "maybe I don' want to talk about it." It was certainly not a snap, but his tone was firm enough to signal that he wouldn't be engaged in a conversation on that subject. He snuffed out the nearby candle on the windowsill to make his point, rolled over, back to Aramis, and lay facing the wall.

Letting go of a breath, he willed the tension in his muscles away, and in its wake, was left feeling... tired and bereft.

Harboring anger at his brothers was a particular kind of weariness that even fighting a war could not match.

Because that was the strain that kept tugging at Porthos's soul, threating to tear and rip out holes, and this struggle to keep himself intact by keeping these men close, sane and sound.

They hadn't been making it very easy lately.

When Aramis had refused to return from Douai two years ago, Porthos had reacted by pulling Athos and d'Artagnan closer to him. He'd fisted figurative hands around the lapels of their shirts and yanked them to himself, trying to mend the gaping hole Aramis had ruptured when he'd gone. Porthos had attached himself to d'Artagnan's side, watched him and taught him how to be a soldier because the lad had made a bloody fine Musketeer but had not known the hardships of a campaign, of the endless marches and the blind obedience to orders arriving on pieces of parchment from people with titles but no faces. Of military strategy, of open-field battle and the sheer terror of it that no self-respecting man would deny, and how a man's notion of honour, held so dear to them all, was tried, tested, and shifted to accommodate for what had to be done.

Notions of honour.

" _You'd be wise not to test what my definition of honour entails, monsieur. For you would discover how flexible it can be."_

That was what Athos had said to the Spanish captive, Fuente, that day.

Had that notion flexed so much that Athos would consider deserting –

 _No_  - Porthos stopped the thought before it took shape and form.

He  _did_ know that Athos would never have gone with Milady. He never  _actually_  doubted Athos, and believe that he might have deserted them; his words to him last night in the tavern had been without thought, a statement in disbelief, in question, and in what Porthos knew was plain unfairness to his friend. But he couldn't prevent the angered disappointment that had sunk into his stomach at the thought of behind left behind.

Because he  _had_ been left behind. The thought of losing Athos, too, just two days after Aramis had said his abrupt goodbyes -

What a  _fool_  Porthos would have been made of.

He had been the one to advise Athos to 'sort out' what had been bothering him. Wasn't it ironic that Athos had intended to do just that? He'd caught his friend's eye just before the latter had grabbed the reins of a horse and ridden out in the middle of preparations; half an hour later when he had returned, he had given Porthos a nod, the customary taciturn sign that things were taken care of, that matters were sorted and all was well.

But  _Athos_ hadn't sorted anything out, had he? Providence had. If Milady's carriage had waited for but a few more minutes -

What would  _Aramis_ , with his peculiarly bespoke understanding of faith, call  _that_?

Not that Porthos would ask. It was pointless to think on these things.

When Athos had returned, Porthos had been pleased. He had  _remained_  pleased until the first light of dawn had filtered through the forest of Douai the next morning, and Aramis had refused to go to war with them, literally closing the door on their faces.  _That_  was why Porthos had reacted the way he had last night.

The mere thought that Athos had come so close to doing the very same..

" _What,"_ he'd asked in disbelief on the palace grounds that day, _"we'll just let him go?"_

" _No,"_ Athos had returned _, "He is letting us go."_

Porthos just didn't take well to being let go.

He pulled the blanket higher up over himself, watching the shadows from the single lit candle play harmless games on the panelled wall.

He, too, had thought of leaving once before. The lovely Alice, the candlemaker's widow, had been the first person to make him consider a life beyond the Musketeers. But it had become quickly clear that he couldn't give up soldiering easily, and that Alice was not the woman to brave being the wife of a Musketeer. It was his friends'  _passion_  that frightened Porthos; the power of a kind of love that  _he_ had no experience of, that held sway over each of them and guided them in their choices - Porthos had no grasp of it. Aramis had left because of his love for the queen; to seek repentance, to find atonement, and to protect and keep safe by enforcing distance – he hadn't just let go of  _them_ , but also of the queen and their son. Athos had just admitted that Milady, somehow, still held reign over a piece of his heart, however small, and with such shrewish power that she could override Athos's good sense, even if momentarily. d'Artagnan – the lad lived and breathed and  _fought_  for Constance. For France and the crown, yes, but Porthos knew it wasn't the  _first_  thing that drove the lad into such fierce combat. d'Artagnan's heart  _beat_  for Constance.

That was what frightened Porthos so.

The possibility that one day, one of his friends might walk away again. And he had no right to demand that they stayed, no right to ask them to remain committed to this brotherhood they had built for themselves, that bond and shared life that Porthos treasured beyond anything. He had no right.

So, no; he wasn't angry at his friends. Not at Aramis for leaving; not at Athos for thinking of it; not at d'Artagnan for the possibility that he might.

Porthos was frightened of being left behind. His rawest nerve, kept wrapped under layers and layers of  _virtue:_ loyalty, friendship, brotherhood, honour. Deep beneath it all, each of them had  _something_ with the power to cut through it all, and expose that nerve and leave them vulnerable where it would hurt them the most. This was Porthos's nerve.

But it was dangerous for a man to dwell on it for long.

So he cut off his thoughts as if shoving a dam before a flood wave. Hunkered down in the mattress, shut his eyes close, and with a skill long instilled in him after a lifetime of soldiering, forced himself to go to sleep.

* * *

Sometime later in the night, in the opposite room, d'Artagnan awoke to the sound of the door opening, one hand reaching for his pistol even before consciousness freed itself from the sticky cobwebs of sleep. Blearily he looked over his shoulder and saw Athos entering the room, dark uniform shining in the candlelight as he turned around to close the door.

"What time is it?" the Gascon mumbled, releasing the pistol and plonking back onto the feather-soft mattress.

"Nearly four."

Athos sounded spent as he moved towards the chiffonier and left his weapons down. He reached to unclasp his cloak, the heaviness in his limbs plain to see; his leathers creaked as he began to undress. d'Artagan pushed himself up and walked over to help, yawning, knowing all too well what a chore it was to undress when weariness weighed down this heavily on a man.

Athos looked up briefly when he felt the Gascon reaching to unbuckle the strap of his pauldron. Whereas a mere eighteen months ago the gesture might have been rebuffed, now he simply accepted the help in silent gratitude, his own hand moving to doublet buttons. Living in close quarters for two years in camp had a way of erasing many lines that life in the city drew and preserved between men, regardless of how close they might be.

Athos sighed deeply when he was at last free of all garments but shirt and breeches.

"d'Artagnan," he spoke hoarsely, "if I might beg an act of kindness?"

"Of course," d'Artagnan nodded.

"If I ever let myself be goaded into attending the king's council again, please take my pistol and shoot me between the eyes."

d'Artagnan blinked, then a mighty snort burst from his lips; Athos's lips wriggled as he hung his head, and the Gascon, still grinning, threw an arm around his friend's shoulders, turned him around and steered the captain towards the bed.

* * *

The next morning, as soon as daylight began its sneaky occupation of the night, the king's company mounted the six majestic animals the marquis insisted on gifting to the monarch, and set out once again on the road. The Comte de Boucher's horses would be returned to their owner by the marquis's men. Like the day before in Paris, the journey began in quietude, but this time, it wasn't borne out of discord between friends, but of focus and vigilance of experienced soldiers. Aramis swapped places with Athos at the front, and Athos himself moved to the rear, riding alongside Porthos. Toussaine was at the king's left, and Louis, is daylight, seemed as admirably stoic as he had the previous day.

The morning was bright and clear as they departed from the chateau. A rooster was crowing a spiteful curse towards the sky; a flock of birds took flight from near the pond as the riders thundered past the dirt trail towards the woodland again. Porthos's eyes were narrowed, scanning their surroundings as they covered the large open land around the castle. Scalloped outlines of lacy aspen-trees accented the curves of the hillocks circling them.

As they neared the forest, the five men instinctively moved into an even closer formation around the king.

Louis, if he noticed, gave no indication of it. His face was calm, eyes narrowed and fixed directly ahead. After his mysterious meeting with 'the Germans', he obviously had a lot weighing on his mind; he seemed content to put his trust into his elite bodyguard to protect his person. That was how it was supposed to be.

And it was what Porthos had grown used to during the war-free years in Paris, his sense of duty stemming from exactly this: guarding the king and the queen and being the protection they relied upon without thought. It was, in fact, strangely steadying to be fulfilling just that role once again, anchoring battle-worn Porthos to the steadfast Musketeer of the crown. He wouldn't have expected to feel such a thing as this, and it was a welcome surprise.

Closed air hit them in the face as they rode through the first trees of the forest, and Porthos's hands tightened around the reins. Nearly forty minutes into the return journey, and everything appeared as calm as it should ideally be. But that sense of calm began to evaporate as they advanced further on the forest way and were swallowed by the birch trees. The path ahead was narrow and relatively straight, and appeared entirely empty as they rode at as fast a canter as the horses could manage. The hoof-beats were swallowed by the softened ground; the crisp, chilly air smelled of earth and decaying leaves. Porthos hunched his shoulders.

He didn't like forests.

He thought longingly of the Musketeer garrison in Paris, with its arched gate and enclosed courtyard, with the engraved façades of the buildings and their staunch wooden bench, Treville's –old- office – and everything that was  _home._ Steadily built, offering food and shelter and companionship; and purpose and safety – but more than anything, Porthos loved living in a stone building. After two years of stepping out of a tiny tent into the awaiting forestry or meadow, just the thought of the barracks was both a comfort, and a sharp, biting ache.

For all their preparedness, the shot, when it came, was still a surprise.

" _AMBUSH!_ "

"d'Artagnan! Aramis!"

There was no need for directives, or the " _get the king to safety_!". A crowd of men descended on them from both sides, all in nondescript dark clothes - so sudden it was and so out of the blue, it was as if an invisible dam had broken before them. Five of the attackers were downed in the blink of an eye, as  _they_ did not fire shots on the company; within seconds, swords were drawn, and the ringing of metal got drowned by the bellows and battle cries that brought the forest to furious life.

Three horsemen blocked the path ahead, forcing the company to a grounding halt. The rest of the assailants – at least twenty, maybe even thirty of them! – were on foot, swarming the travellers like a colony of ants.

At the front, Aramis and d'Artagnan launched into a zealous fight like the most passionate of crusaders; they would use sheer force and skill to try and cleave a path to make way for the king to get away. Toussaine protected Louis, never leaving his side while the king thrust a well-aimed kick with the heel of his boot at one man who came too close, and sent him crashing down to the ground. Controlling the horses was becoming a challenge as the animals struggled to cut through the men blocking the path – Aramis's horse, spooked by a blade that came too close to its head, reared in fright, causing its rider to jerk and slide in the saddle; momentarily disoriented, the marksman gripped the reins with one hand to break his fall, and thus couldn't block a descending thrust in the process – a sword caught him at the shoulder, slashing through leather and flesh and Aramis hissed, eyes watering as fire ignited through the skin. He straightened himself, heels dug into the horse's flank and the next moment, he was fighting again.

At the same time, several paces behind, Athos and Porthos were trying to prevent men from approaching the king; even as Aramis was swerving in the saddle, a dagger plunged itself into Porthos's thigh, taking him down from atop his horse: Porthos howled in rage, reached down to clamp an iron fist around a neck and crushed the windpipe by sheer force of strength as pain overrode his good sense; the horse darted from under him and he fell down with a hard  _thud!_ , an instinctive half-roll saving him from being trampled under hooves. The dagger still embedded in his thigh, between one breath and the next, he pushed himself up again and was once more fighting for his life.

There were  _so_ many men.  _Darn_ skilled fighters, too – it was impossible to keep track of what was going on -  _where was the king?_ He shoved a man aside with a mighty bellow – where were Aramis and d'Artagnan?

"Athos!" he hollered towards the other side of the road. He elbowed a man in the face and parried a violent thrust, then threw a glance over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the similarly dismounted captain, right before a sickening pain exploded at the side of his head. A blinding flash of light – his stomach lurched - sound and noise melted together -

"PORTHOS!"

He  _heard_  Athos's cry as he fell.

Heard the sharp note of fear in it too, but was powerless to reply. His vision was blurred, his face pressed into the cold, hard ground; his stomach churned, the sudden onslaught of nausea a mocking infirmity playing like a child on his insides. Twenty feet ahead, in his contorted sight, Athos's feet moved quickly as he continued to battle three men at once.

He had to move. He had to get up, to help Athos, but his limbs had turned into boulders and even Porthos's strength wasn't enough to lift them. He heard Athos's startled cry before seeing him stumble and then fall, hard on his back, the sword flying from his hand. Watched in utter incomprehension as the point of a rapier was drawn into his shoulder, without the slightest hesitation, pinning him to the ground. Saw Athos's body convulse and his hand slap reflexively at the earth.

Didn't hear himself let out a meek groan when what rose from within was a roar.

_Athos!_

He had to get up – had to move –

Athos was shaking.

He felt a pull on his arm. A presence at his back - but he didn't pay attention because he was fixed on Athos. Someone shouted out an order in Spanish (had Porthos heard that voice before?). The man behind him muttered a curse and quickened – (what was he doing?) Hands seized Athos up by the front of his doublet, the rapier impaling him still very much in place; a strangled grunt spilled from Athos's lips as the rapier slid down from straight vertical to an angled horizontal line, dangling lopsidedly from his flesh. Still Athos tried to push away his assailant with his good arm.

Porthos's vision was fading.

He felt the hands upon his person, pulling at him, doing something – what? – trying to haul him up? – still he couldn't move and it was getting worse, consciousness sliding out of his grip –

He saw Athos struggle weakly to free himself. Saw two men restrain him and one of them swing a pistol butt against the side of his head. Looked on in indescribable horror as his friend – his brother - fell limp.

The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was men hauling Athos up on a horse and galloping away into the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Forgive me for eschewing the research notes this time - right now I'm simply hoping that I haven't left around any loose threads, and that the chapter wasn't too messy a read. Thanks for reading; should you feel inclined, I'd love to hear your thoughts._
> 
> _I'm afraid I won't be able to update very soon, as it's the end of the academic term and the busiest time of the year, but I hope to be back in January. Happy December!_


	16. (I) Grab A Hold...

**(I) Grab A Hold...**

The idyllic peace of the countryside was shattered when four horses burst through the trees of Rambouillet, hooves stomping on the dirt trail leading north-east towards the capital. Four riders, breathing almost as heavily as their mounts, pulled hard on the reins to bring the animals to a stop, but the horses, too charged to come to a sudden standstill, continued to dance nimbly on their feet, neighing and nickering as they shook their heads.

"Is it safe to stop?" King Louis asked, glancing anxiously back towards the trees as if he expected riders to charge at them any moment.

"For a few minutes," d'Artagnan confirmed, swiftly sliding off the saddle, "There's been no sign of pursuit for an hour now. Are you hurt, your majesty?"

"No, no.. Scraped only."

"General?"

Toussaine shook his head.

"Good. We'll give the horses a few minutes to rest, then ride on to Elancourt as planned."

"Elancourt?" The king turned around in alarm. "But that was our original plan! Whoever these men are, it's obvious they're well-informed of our itinerary - what if they lie in wait in Elancourt as well? What if we ride into another trap?"

"That's highly unlikely," d'Artagnan countered, marching up to Aramis, who was dismounting carefully, "There were more than twenty men who attacked us in the forest. They were determined to finish us then and there; they won't have prepared a second attack."

"You can't know that for certain!"

"No, sire," Aramis agreed, sounding calm even though he looked pale and spoke through clenched teeth, "but right now, we're out of options. We must get you safely back to Paris before sundown; Elancourt is not only the shortest route, but also the only village with an inn for miles. It is a risk we have to take."

"But what if they've taken the horses we've put there, like they did in Orsay?"

"In that case, we'll push the animals harder and make for Versailles. It's a half-hour ride from Elancourt and the safest place for His majesty outside of Paris."

That was the course of action the four Musketeers had agreed upon prior to their departure from the chateau, and with Athos and Porthos having fallen behind, it was imperative that they stuck with it. General Toussaine offered no comment of his own, seemingly content to let the Musketeers take charge of the situation, although, looking every bit as dishevelled as the rest of them after the fight and the chase in the woods, he was still as observant as ever, the silver-grey eyes leaving no doubt that the man would interfere the moment he felt the need for it. The king himself, thankfully, couldn't seem to find anything more to object, so after a moment of consideration, gave his nod of consent.

"What of Athos and Porthos?" he inquired then, "Should we not wait for them?"

d'Artagan and Aramis exchanged a quick look before d'Artagnan replied, almost curtly,

"We can't linger here out in the open. Our priority is getting your Majesty to safety; the captain and Porthos know the route we're taking. They'll catch up with us soon." Without waiting for a response, he turned and followed Aramis down through the path to a grove by the roadside.

They had ridden hard through the forest for over an hour after they'd managed to cut through the assailants that had descended on them. The two Musketeers fighting at the front had taken on the horsemen blocking the path in one-on-one duels, busying them to give the king an opportunity to escape; General Toussaine, right behind them, had fought assiduously to keep the monarch safe, guiding Louis effectively through corridor Aramis and d'Artagnan had cleared towards the front. Dispatching of their respective opponents, they had then followed the trail of Louis and Toussaine, but more assailants had given chase; pistols spent in the initial fight, they'd had to engage in sword-fighting once more. When they'd felled their final attackers, d'Artagnan had almost yelled at Aramis to return to help Athos and Porthos while he rode on after the king, but the dangerous angle of the marksman's posture in the saddle, the tense lines on his face and, even more decisively, the glaring absence of his hat, had convinced him otherwise. Knowing their priorities, the two Musketeers had caught up with the king and the general shortly thereafter and ridden at full canter until they'd cleared of the forest.

Now leaving Toussaine and the king on their own for a few moments, d'Artagnan walked over to where Aramis was easing himself down on a rock, and helped his friend loosen his doublet to peer at the wound at the back of his shoulder.

"Aramis, this is bad," he reported, frowning concernedly at the amount of blood soaking his friend's once-white shirt. The gash appeared long, though he couldn't yet discern how deep; what was immediately clear was that it required stitches, and the sooner they could do it, the better.

"Yes, I can rather feel that," Aramis sighed as he bent over, cradling his arm in his lap, "Can you put something on it to stop the bleeding?"

"Of course - take off your sash; we'll use it to support your arm until we reach the inn." He hurried to his saddlebags to retrieve a spare shirt and folded it into a pad of cloth; returning, he leaned over to insert it through the marksman's collar. "Aramis," he confided quietly, "I don't think those men were intending to kill the king."

"No," Aramis agreed readily, "No, neither do I."

"Not a single shot was fired on us beyond the initial one. They had the high ground; they could've taken out at least one or two us before moving in on the king, yet instead, they risk descending on us with swords and clubs?"

"Which makes me think they didn't intend to kidnap him, either."

"How does that make sense?" He quickly tied off the knot over Aramis's shoulder and adjusted the sash-sling around the limb. "Why would anyone lay an ambush for the king's company if they didn't intend to kill  _or_  kidnap him?" But even as the words left his lips, d'Artagnan's fingers slowed. His eyes sought Aramis's as the marksman raised his head to look at him –  _unless -_

".. unless the king wasn't the target," Aramis finished the thought. As one, the two friends turned to look towards General Toussaine.

"Right. What are we thinking?" d'Artagnan pulled Aramis to his feet, keeping a hand on the marksman's arm as the latter caught his balance; his face pinched in discomfort, Aramis shot him a look of gratitude before speaking.

"You were right about what you said last night. Whoever those men were, they waited for the right time to attack. They let us reach the chateau and allowed the meeting to go ahead before making their move. What that tells me," he glanced again at the general, who was running a hand down his horse's flank to check for injuries, "is that unlike you and me, they knew precisely well what that meeting was about."

"You  _are_ thinking that the General is the spy."

"On the contrary," Aramis shook his head, "I think it's more likely that  _he_  was the real target, not the king."

Now  _that_  was a sharp turn in their suspicions regarding the events surrounding this mission since the previous day. d'Artagnan, therefore, looked suitably sceptical.

"I don't know, Aramis.. The same logic holds: if they wanted to kidnap either of them _,_  why wouldn't they take  _us_ out first - eliminate the immediate threat before moving in?"

It took Aramis only a moment to find an answer to that. "They wouldn't risk opening fire on us if they were ordered not to harm the king."

Now they were taking shots in the dark.

d'Artagnan's eyes narrowed even more as he considered that, obviously not yet convinced, but even as Aramis looked at him, something shifted in the Gascon's face. "You think they wanted to capture Toussaine to learn of the details of that meeting," he said in an odd voice, making the marksman frown.

"In either case, Toussaine falling into Spanish hands would spell disaster for France. Why?"

d'Artagnan's eyes were full of worry, as was his voice when he spoke. "Aramis, Toussaine was not the only one present in that meeting."

As the full implication of those words hit him, Aramis felt as if the earth fell away beneath his feet.

_Athos._

_Athos,_  too, had been in that meeting.

"We're jumping to conclusions," he said with enforced calm, no qualms about backtracking on his own words, "It's not been that long. What's more probable is that they're buying us time to get away. They should catch up soon." He did not spell out what he hoped was the lesser probability.

"I pray to God you're right, but frankly?" said d'Artagnan, shooting him a pessimistic look, "Nothing about this mission has gone our way so far. Why should they start doing so now?"

On that sour note, he marched up to the horses and called for the company to move out. Unbeknownst to them, somewhere near the western border of the forest, a group of Spaniards were lowering the unconscious captain of the Musketeers down from the back of a horse, and crowding around him as they waited for their leader to arrive.

* * *

The diminished company rode hard for the small village of Elancourt, encountering, thankfully, nothing more than sheep and the odd shepherd on the way towards Versailles. The road from Rambouillet was all but empty even now in the fresh hours of the day; the area between the village and the forest, a largely uninhabited, open grassland rarely taken by travellers. As they passed through the wheat fields and neared the village just short of noon, d'Artagnan signalled the others to hide in a copse of trees at the foot of a bridge that traversed a small creek, and rode on by himself to scout ahead. Unlike  _La Couronne d'Or_ , Elancourt's single inn was a less-than-kingly one, so to speak, but so long as it was safe and their stationed mounts secure, the company would have what they needed.

Few people milled about along the main road as d'Artagnan rode his weary horse through it at an easy trot, watching for any sign of trouble ahead of the king's - the  _marquis_ 's - arrival. The mid-day sun had chased most folk to the cooler shades of indoors, and everything in the sleepy outdoors appeared as harmless as it should be; less than three minutes after passing the village's first house, d'Artagnan was stopping in front of the two-story, modest building that served as both the tavern and the occasional inn for the wayward traveller, and throwing down an assessing gaze at the red-nosed, lanky lad that clambered to greet him.

"You're the stableboy?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"How many guests are there at the inn?"

The boy frowned at the strange question, hesitating about answering; impressed by the display of caution, d'Artagnan shrugged his cloak aside to reveal the Musketeers' pauldron. The insignia immediately produced the desired effect.

"Only two guests, monsieur, staying overnight."

"How many horses in the stables?"

"Six."

"Six," d'Artagnan repeated, "I assume two of those belong to your guests."

The boy nodded.

"What about the other four?"

"One of them is ours. The others..."

"Yes?"

"Well, we were brought six horses the other day, monsieur. We were told men would come to claim them early this morning, but no one came. Did you come for them?" he asked with sudden insight. d'Artagnan ignored him.

"Where are these horses now?"

"Three of them are here. We don't have enough room here for so many horses, so we stabled the other three with M. Fulbert down the road."

"So all six horses are here and accounted for?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Very good." Satisfied, d'Artagnan nodded in relief. If, as the king had feared, they had lost the horses like they'd done in Orsay, that would have proved a much bigger problem now than it had done yesterday. He was just about to dismount when he caught sight of the two dark horses tied at the side of the inn, tethered to a window shutter and grazing peacefully in the shade. His forehead creased again.

"Whose are those?"

"Ah, two men came about half an hour ago. They..."

"They what?" he asked impatiently.

"Well, they asked about the horses, too, monsieur. They said we would have been brought six horses, and that these horses would be collected today, and asked if they were. Collected, I mean. I said no, they're still here. I asked them if  _they_  were going to take the horses but they didn't say anything, so.. They're still here."

"Understood," d'Artagnan declared, not rudely as he dismounted, "horses still here."

"No, no - I meant the men, monsieur. The men who asked about the horses - they're at the inn."

d'Artagnan stopped, one hand arrested on the pommel of the saddle.

Who were these men? Were they friend or foe - how did they know about the horses? Did they pose a threat to His majesty? And could  _one_  thing please go smoothly on this mission?

Making his decision as quickly as he was wont to, he passed the reins to the lad and told him to wait there, that he would only be a minute. He checked his pistol to make sure it was loaded, crossed the patch of greenery leading to the inn with long, purposeful strides; one hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw, he pushed the door in and entered.

Six heads turned to him as the door bell pealed.

Two elderly men nursing drinks in a corner, a lone man standing by the window, and two others at a table near the stairs.

No one jumped him.

"Welcome, monsieur, I am Mme. Guido. How can I be of service?"

"d'Artagnan?"

"Berger?"

The men at the table rose to their feet in a loud clatter and one of them was indeed none other than the Musketeer Berger, in full uniform, now rushing to the Gascon's side with his companion at his heels.

"Thank God – we'd begun to fear the worst!" He dropped his voice to a hush. "The king?"

"Safe, waiting with Aramis and the General for my signal. Berger, what are you doing here? Where's the rest of the patrol?"

"In Versailles, where they're supposed to be! When you didn't check in with us hours ago, we thought something must have happened; Duval sent me and Girard –" he tipped his head towards the other man, who wore the Guards' uniform –"to check if you'd touched base here. What in God's name happened?"

"It's a long story - we were ambushed." d'Artagnan shoved his pistol back onto the belt and pulled his cloak to hide it -rather belatedly-, then turned to the woman who had managed to introduce herself as Mme. Guido right before being promptly ignored by the three men. "Madame, we need a room if you have one; water for washing up, bandages, and wine for six, please."

"Bandages?" Berger frowned, alarm growing.

"Aramis took a cut to the back."

The woman blinked, closed her open mouth, nodded and scurried away. "Berger, we can't linger here - the king was supposed to have returned to Paris several hours ago. I told him they - whoever the men who attacked us were – though were heard them speak Spanish – they wouldn't have prepared a second ambush, but that doesn't mean-"

"d'Artagnan, slow down," said Berger, raising up a hand to stop the flow of words that obviously made little sense to him;  _he_  could see the battle rush that still lingered around the younger man, the anxiety beneath the ever-present defiance in his eye. He circled a grounding hand around d'Artagnan's arm, and the other man was immediately grateful for the contact. "First things first." said Berger, holding d'Artagnan's gaze, "You said the king is with Aramis and the general. Where are the captain and Porthos?"

"You don't understand - we got separated." Madame Guido arrived with keys in her hand and cut the hurried explanation short; the three men followed her into a second-story room just at the end of the stairs and no sooner than the door was closed on the woman that d'Artagnan continued, hands perched on his hips as they stood in a group in the middle of the room. "We arrived too late at the castle last night. The king's business took longer than any of us expected, so we had to depart at first light instead of three hours before, as we were supposed to. Not even an hour after we entered the forest this morning, we were ambushed -  _merde!"_  he swore suddenly, smacking his forehead so hard it was a wonder he didn't fall over - "That's why they took the horses in Orsay! They delayed us, so we would have to ride through the forest in daylight – they couldn't have laid an ambush at the dead of the night!"

Berger was looking at him as if trying to determine whether or not he had suffered a blow to the head, but d'Artagnan did not notice, lost as he was in his second moment of epiphany in as many days. His stomach sunk as he now fully realized how well-planned the entire scheme had been - and they were still three hours away from the safety of Paris, three hours in which anything and everything could go wrong. He had to get to the others - Aramis and the king were waiting – if the circumstances would have allowed, he would have laughed at the thought, the king of France and the top general of his armies hiding in the bushes in the middle of nowhere.

Berger, however, had different plans.

He shook his head in exasperation. "Start talking sense," he said in a voice that brooked no argument. "Athos and Porthos: you said you were separated. When? During the ambush?"

d'Artagnan dipped his chin in the affirmative, gaze dropping to the floor for reasons even he did not understand. "Aramis and I were at the front; Athos and Porthos were bringing up the rear. We lost sight of each other during the attack. There's been no sign of them since."

Berger thoroughly cursed. "What of Vérde's patrol? They were supposed to secure the forest for your passage."

"No sign of them either. Although," he glanced at the Guard, "we found Dominique and a Guard within the forest yesterday. Both dead."

"Blimey, lad," Berger breathed, rubbing the back of his neck, "Do you have any good news for us?"

D'Artagnan arched him an eyebrow. "The king's still alive?"

Berger snorted. "Hallelujah." He squared his shoulders again; thought for a few moments, then looked up at both men. "Alright. Here is what we're going to do. Girard, ride back to Versailles, my friend. Round up the Musketeers and the Guard so they'll be ready to escort the king to Paris. I will ride for the forest and look for our comrades. I'll send Aramis and the others along when I pass by them – d'Artagnan, where are they waiting?"

"I'll come with you," d'Artagnan said instead of answering, nodding as he followed through his own rapidly-forming thoughts, "If Girard rides ahead and readies the escort, Aramis and Toussaine will be good to protect the king from here to Versailles. You and I will return to the forest and search for the others together."

"That's not what's going to happen."

d'Artagnan immediately took a breath to protest but Berger was adamant. "d'Artagnan," he emphasized, putting both hands on the Gascon's shoulders, "listen to me. For whatever reason, both our lieutenant and our captain are missing. Aramis, you say, is wounded; right now, as His majesty's chosen guard, it is your duty to get him back to Paris in one piece. So  _you_  are going to see this mission through, my friend, and I will ride to the forest alone."

"Berger, don't be  _insane,_ you can't go there on your own! We don't know how many more of these men there are in this area, we don't know how they're organized! They've been ahead of us every step of the way; there'll be none of us around to help you if you, too, get yourself captured –"

" _Captured_?"

Slamming both fists onto his brow, d'Artagnan tipped his head back and groaned.

He  _had_  to get a grip on himself.

Trust Aramis and his wild conjectures to get under his skin - they were jumping to conclusions like a pair of worrying housewives. They were talking about  _Athos_   _and Porthos_  here - it was more likely that they'd dispatched of the Spaniards and were rounding up the ones they'd left alive to take prisoner. It must be taking time to drag a group of would-be kidnappers on foot through the woods..  _wild conjectures!_

"Lad. Sit down."

Resuming charge once again, Berger pushed him down onto a chair even as the door opened and Mme. Guido entered without ceremony, carrying a tray with wine and the other requested items. "Drink up." He filled a cup and handed it to d'Artagnan, who drank without fuss.

"We're wasting time. Where is the king waiting?"

"At the foot of the bridge over the creek, just outside the village." d'Artagnan looked up at Berger with an unyielding gaze. "You are  _not_  going into that forest alone. Girard," he shot a glance at the silent Guard, "can tell Duval to send a group of men back to Rambouillet to catch up with you. We'll manage with a smaller escort for the king."

"That's not -"

" _Don't_  argue with me about this, Berger. How many men have we already lost to the Spanish in attacks like this? It's simple common sense."

At that, a small smile curved Berger's lips, accentuating the scar across his jowl. "Charles d'Artagnan... advising common sense. The captain would be proud." He sobered again. "Don't worry. Get the king back to the palace. We will find our brothers and see you back at the garrison." He held out a hand and d'Artagnan grasped it firmly.

"God speed, Berger."

"All for one," said the older man.

With departing nods, the two soldiers turned and left.

Fifteen minutes later, d'Artagnan would be stitching the slash across Aramis's back in the same room, the king –ah, the "Marquis de Harcourt" _-_  and General Toussaine would be waiting down in the inn's common hall to avoid witnessing the procedure, and in less than an hour, under the early afternoon sun, they would once again be riding on the road to Versailles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies to anyone who might be have been waiting for this update. Writing this story is like a wrestling match with it. Thanks for reading.


	17. (II) ...Hang On Tight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things become dramatic. **Warning** for some disturbing imagery and some bad language from agitated Musketeers.  
>  It's been so long since some of the pivotal chapters have been up, you might want to take a look at the Chapters "Notions of Honour" and "A Mission of Great Importance" to brush up on plot before reading this. Otherwise, you may be left scratching your head a lot. (Sorry.)  
> (With thanks to **penless** for looking this over.)

**(II) ...Hang On Tight**

Athos awoke to a scream and a scent and in blistering agony _._

" _Hold him down!"_

_"Tighter, damn you!"_

_Hands on his arms, shoulder, legs, shouting, shouting flesh burning sizzling unending growing growing until it engulfed him as a whole, leaving no space for thought, no place for sense-_

_"Hurry it-"_

_"Be quiet - do you want a taste of it yourself?"_

Athos retched.

_"Tip him forward."_

_"Give him a moment."_

He retched again and again.

 _The odour of burnt flesh in the air, the pungent smell of vomit but his_ shoulder _his shoulder shoulder shoulder -_

Hands yanked him forward, breath whooshing out of him and a dark-clad torso invaded his sight –  _where_  – _what_  –

He screamed again.

_"Has terminado?"_

_Too much._

Agony consumed him like a devouring beast, and Athos sunk into greedy oblivion.

* * *

When Berger reached the first of the forest's trees, the sun had long tipped itself over the other side of its zenith. Easing his horse's gallop into a speedy canter, he bent his head as they entered the woods, and steadied the gait. According to what he'd learned from Aramis, he would have to ride for nearly an hour before reaching the site of the ambush. Berger wasn't concerned overmuch about encountering Spaniards: those men were nothing if not bold, having dared to attack the King a mere forty miles out of his capital, but if they had any sense at all, they wouldn't linger in the forest and risk getting caught. On the other hand, he very much hoped that he would run into Athos and Porthos on their belated return. They could have been hampered by prolonged pursuit, or even injury, but Berger believed them certainly alive, hopefully mostly hale. d'Artagnan had been full of adrenaline, his tongue loosened by concern for the two men; the logical part of Berger's brain told him that it was, in fact, as yet soon to think of Athos and Porthos as officially missing. But after hearing the Gascon's news about Dominique and the King's Guard, he seriously feared about the six-men patrol assigned to these hunting grounds. Deep down, he had an unshakable feeling that he was going into this forest to find bodies. He only prayed that they wouldn't be the ones of his friends and comrades.

The forest was cool, almost chilly; the heat of the day, a leftover from last summer, let up as soon as the dense greenery engulfed him. Following the winding path through with his eyes, Berger was grateful for d'Artagnan's insistence that men be sent after him to aid in the search. He would need to watch for tracks. While he was decent enough at it, he knew perfectly well that he wasn't the best tracker around. Porthos was the best. Hércules Boutin, a close second. He knew Duval would make sure Boutin was one of the men that were sent after him, so they would have no problem finding  _him_. He, on the other hand, had to be extremely careful not to miss any sign that might lead him to his friends.

In the end, it turned out to be easier than he'd expect.

For the first half hour he rode fast, encountering nothing and no one. As he advanced deeper in the forest and passed the fork at the conjunction of the roads from Orsay and Elancourt, he slowed the pace to a trot, and left a mark for the comrades that would be following him. Fifteen minutes after that, he came across the first sign that his destination was now close.

At the side of the road, half-embedded in the rotting leaves carpeting the ground, lay a body, sprawled on his front. He wore greys and browns, unmarked - had he not been looking for just such a sign, Berger might have ridden past him without noticing. Scanning the area with wary eyes, he found a second one close by: a foot, attached to a leg, attached to a body dangling below, out of Berger's sight, down from the edge of the slight ridge by the roadside. These must be the men that had given chase after Aramis and d'Artagnan. Where were their horses?

Berger found them in a clearing nearby, reins trailing as they stood under a high canopy of birches, looking lost. He rounded them up, relieved them of their saddles, tethered them and moved on.

Ten minutes later, he came across a carcass in the middle of the road.

A chestnut-brown horse, mane glittering with blood from the slash across her neck, blocking the path right before a wide bend. Berger's horse snorted and shook her head, stomping her hooves; Berger ran a calming hand down the animal's neck and nudged her forward to take a few cautious steps until he could see around the bend. When his eyes alighted on the scene before him, an oath escaped his lips.

He'd found the site of the attack.

And it was a battlefield.

Bodies lay scattered before him - one, two, three, six, seven, nine -  _no Musketeer blue, thank God_ , was Berger's first thought as he jumped down from the saddle, but his error hit him before his feet hit the ground: the Inseparables had ridden incognito. They could yet be here.

"Captain!" he bellowed, drawing his pistol as he slowly advanced, looking down at the unfamiliar face of the nearest body, "Athos, can you hear me? Porthos!"

Nothing but the echo of his own voice answered him. He walked around the bodies littering the ground, going from one to the other, looking for survivors - someone to interrogate, someone to shed light on what had happened here, but he found none. He refused to even acknowledge that he might find his captain or lieutenant among these men, but their initial absence brought no comfort. Berger knew he needed to extend the search. The fatalities could not be limited to this: according to d'Artagnan, almost thirty men had attacked the company. Five of them shot down at the beginning of the fight, Berger was certain that the four Inseparables would have taken out more than just six men. The survivors might have rounded up their own wounded and ridden off, but where were Athos and Porthos?

"Captain!" he called out again, setting off down the path, "Porthos!"

He tried whistling the Musketeer signals, but there was no answer. The eerie quiet of the woods over the melee was a strain on the nerves.

Then Berger's eyes landed on another body in the distance, lying at the bottom of the rise flanking the road. A large, familiar figure, facing away from Berger- " _Porthos!"_

He crossed the distance at a run and skidded to his knees near the prone form.

"Porthos, Porthos, come on..."

Muttering under his breath Berger reached forward to turn him onto his back, and cursed thoroughly at the sight that met him: blood covered the entire side of Porthos's face, up from a dark stain at the edge of his bandana down into the thick, badly-trimmed beard; under the ghastly red paint, his eyes were closed, serene in a way they never looked even in sleep.

"You bloody, gigantic bastard _,_  don't you  _dare_  being dead!"

Laying one hand on the side of Porthos's head, Berger tore the other's glove off with his teeth and spat it out; sneaking two fingers under Porthos's chin, he waited. One, two, three beats –  _there_  – faint but steady – Porthos lived! -  _thank God_ –  _What else?_  He shifted his attention to the rest of Porthos's body and his gaze got snatched on the dagger hilt protruding from Porthos's thigh. A trickle of blood had spilled from the wound down over the leg and formed a tiny, dark pool on the ground - wasting no time, Berger surged to his feet and ran to his horse to retrieve his saddlebags. He'd made sure to not leave the inn unprepared for a situation like this; returning to Porthos, he immediately set to work.

The head wound had bled copiously, but the bandana had stuck over the point of impact, and when Berger washed it with water from his canteen, he found that it had thankfully stopped. The cut over the ear was jagged and ugly, standing at the peak of considerable swelling, but under Berger's fingers the skull felt intact. Berger didn't begrudge himself a quick smile at this - if anyone could get away with such an injury, it was Porthos. He laid out the items he'd need before shifting his attention to the thigh: belt, threaded needle, brandy, bandages; Porthos had not stirred, but Berger hoped that his clumsy attempt at playing Aramis would soon remedy that. He wrapped the belt tightly above the wound and closed his hands around the hilt; muttering a prayer that Porthos wouldn't wake up swinging and knock him out, he took a breath, braced himself and pulled.

The blade came away with a sickening slurp, but Porthos did not jerk.

Worry spiking at the lack of reaction, Berger did quick work of washing the wound and then stitching the gash. When he was done, he did not stop to admire his handiwork – it was truly ugly, it would scar terribly, Aramis would probably give him a long sideways glance when he saw it but so long as Porthos didn't do anything stupid in the next few days like walking – a prayer not worth sparing an amen to - the stitches would hold. Wrapping it tightly with several strips of cloth, Berger allowed himself to finally sit back, and breathe _._

_Porthos would live._

...But where was Athos?

He threw another glance at his injured friend, and his hand crawled over to lay for a moment on Porthos's arm. Letting go, he turned and took a quick swig from the bottle, taking care to spare most of it for later. He manhandled Porthos to rest him propped against the rise, and settled beside him. He could not help but remember d'Artagnan's fear now: could their captain really have been taken captive by the Spanish? It did not bear thinking about. While an ordinary army captain might not have been of too much value in terms of a prisoner of war, as Captain of the King's Musketeers, Athos was different. Berger, like all Musketeers, knew that Athos commanded respect, as grudging as undeniable, even among his superiors in the army. It had as much to do with the man's character as with his coveted position as the head of the king's most elite regiment – it certainly earned much jealousy, even resentment among many an officer, but within the regiment itself, Athos's captaincy after Tréville had been met with approval by all, and celebration by most. Berger thought that despite their plain clothing in this mission, the Inseparables – as the four were known not just in the regiment but practically all around Paris – had been wearing their pauldrons: if anyone in the group that had attacked them had recognized the additional insignia on Athos's shoulder, they would have known the value of the captain as a prisoner.

Then again, perhaps Berger  _was_  getting ahead of himself.

If only Porthos would awaken..

Berger suddenly frowned. Something was not right about Porthos's appearance. Something was off, something... Then he found it: the pauldron. Porthos's pauldron was missing.

Frown deepening, he leaned forward for closer scrutiny and saw that the strap wasn't simply undone, but hacked off. What was the meaning of this? Why would Spaniards take Porthos's pauldron, but not him? Had they thought him dead? If yes, what use did they have for a Musketeer pauldron? Anger surged through Berger's veins as his hand landed on Porthos's empty shoulder, fingers digging in in support, almost as if in compensation - taking a Musketeer's pauldron was taking a Musketeer's identity. The pauldron was their most prized possession: it embodied everything that made them who they were: honour, duty, brotherhood,  _belonging_. Once, in the earlier years of his commission, Berger had lost his pauldron for a full day, embarrassingly forgetting that he'd given it to a leatherworker to replace a torn strap; he'd felt not only utterly naked, but nearly off-balance, almost lost without its weight on his shoulder. It'd felt as if the bonds tethering him to the regiment, to the brotherhood, had suddenly disappeared. He'd felt out of place wandering the garrison without it.

Porthos was going to be furious when he found out. Porthos was going to be  _dangerous_ when he found out.

Letting go of his friend again, Berger swept his gaze over the dead men surrounding him. With a huff, he pushed to his feet. They couldn't leave them as they were. As unpleasant a task as it was, it had to be done: grudgingly, he began dragging bodies side by side, into a line. Perhaps he would find something he'd missed earlier.

He'd just pushed and rolled the final body beside the others when he heard the Musketeer whistle ringing from a distance. Relieved, Berger wiped his hands on his breeches before answering. A few minutes later, two Musketeers arrived atop their horses. Berger frowned, having expected at least three men, as he advanced to greet them - both men were scowling.

"Boutin! What news?"

"Nothing good," Boutin replied crossly, climbing down the horse and regarding the line of bodies with palpable disgust, "What of yours?"

"Porthos is over there - badly injured." He gestured towards the unconscious lieutenant while watching Boutin's face with a frown, not liking the man's mood - the other Musketeer, du Galland, after sparing a greeting nod to Berger, had already begun moving towards their lieutenant. "No sign of the captain."

"One Spaniard," Boutin grumbled, unexpectedly leaning forward until he was almost in Berger's face, one finger rising threateningly as if Berger were the one responsible for this entire mess, "I need just one alive Spaniard right now, and God knows I know what I'm going to do with him."

"What the hell, Boutin," Berger snapped, batting the hand away, "what have you found?"

"We've found the fuckin' patrol, Berger, that's what we found," Berger ground out through clenched teeth, fingers contracting into fists at the sides. He was breathing very heavily. "Four men. Beçanson, Allard, Vidal and - Vérde. I found them  _in a ditch_. I found them shot _,_ cut down, and  _thrown into a ditch,_ Berger - even their horses were slaughtered. So if you've got one single Spaniard here who draws breath, you better show him to me because I will split him limb by limb, and I will feed him to dogs, do you understand me?"

By the time he'd finished speaking, he was trembling from head to toe. A tear broke out from one eye and raced down his face; horrified, all Berger could do was to put a hand on the back of Boutin's neck and pull the man to himself. Vérde was one of Boutin's oldest friends. They'd known each other since their infantry days, and had received their commissions together. Allard, a gallant, seasoned Musketeer. Vidal, their youngest - the most wicked shot they'd had after Aramis, a younger brother to all.  _Dead now. S_ laughtered in an ambush -  _again, again, again –_ Berger felt his own eyes burning, throat closing up.  _They did not deserve this!_

Exhaling shakily, he let go of Boutin. He walked back to Porthos's side, retrieved the bottle of brandy and placed in Boutin's hand, wrapping his fingers around it, ensuring he took hold. If his hands remained closed over Boutin's for a few moments longer than necessary, none of them remarked on it. Then he turned and marched up to du Galland.

"What else?" he asked.

There would be time to grieve. But this was not it. Their captain was missing – there was work to be done. du Galland raised overwrought eyes at him.

"We left Fevrier with them." There was no need to explain who. "We also found a trail leading west a few miles back. Boutin thinks a company of at least ten recently passed by there. It might be worth following."

Thinking for a moment, Berger nodded. "Paris will be expecting news... I'll ride back with Porthos. Fervier can come with us until Elancourt - we'll commandeer carts from there." Neither did he put to words what the carts would be for. "He'll return with men to the forest, and you and Boutin," he glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to see that Boutin had collected himself, "can follow that trail you found. There's four hours until sunset. You can return or send word to the garrison before midnight."

He took care to not make it sound like an order, as he had no superiority, either of rank or age, over either man, but Berger was known among the Musketeers for his cool head and his staunch dependability, and neither du Galland nor Boutin objected. They helped him manoeuvre Porthos onto a horse and held him until Berger swung himself into the saddle behind the lieutenant. He suppressed a grunt as he tried to get comfortable in the small saddle. This was going to be difficult.

Saluting his comrades and nudging his horse to a start, Berger threw a final glance at the line of the dead Spaniards. He thought of the comrades, the brothers-in-arms who lay dead because of these men - all twelve Musketeers killed in the last two months - and a fist closed around his throat again. He sharply turned away, hands fisting around the reins. This was no longer war. This had become personal. Someone had chosen to make an enemy of the Musketeers.

Berger remembered what Athos had said not too long ago:  _let us show them we're the worthiest of targets to take down_.

 _No, Captain,_  he vowed silently, securing his hold on Porthos,  _We're going to make them regret it._

* * *

~ o O o ~

* * *

When Athos came around again, the first thing he registered was the gnawing ache that ate down the entire side of his torso.

The second was the tug of ropes around his wrists.

"A necessary precaution,  _Capitan_. I'm sure you understand."

It barely warranted a glare, let alone a comment. Slowly, breathing through his nose to negotiate impending sickness, Athos opened his eyes.

His hands were in his lap, naked and bloodied. Himself, on a chair in the middle of a room, small and swathed in shadows. From a window high behind him, a sliver of red light beamed across the room, falling onto the brick wall he was facing like a thick, angry welt. Beneath the crimson streak, on the edge of the light and the dark, was the silhouette of a man. A seated outline – formless. Like a marionette waiting for its master to arrive.

But that impression would not last long.

The man rose to his feet like a lopsided accordion elongating when pulled up, and tilted his head into the light.

"You..." Athos rasped.

"Fate,  _Capitan_ ," said Raphaello Fuente, as if the single word explained everything.

He was no marionette. Fuente was the man who pulled the strings.

"I would apologize for the way you've been treated," he said, accent heavy, but the French flowing, "but rapier wounds, you must know, tend to bleed a lot. We had to cauterize it to save your life." He paused for a moment, cocking his head to the side. "You are, after all, no use to me dead."

_But how could it be Fuente?_

"The king..." Athos swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut against the pounding in his head, "I assume your attempt.. on the king of France has been thwarted by my friends." He presumed he'd either be dead or thrown into a decidedly more run-down cell to die of hunger and thirst, had the king of France been killed or kidnapped by the Spanish. Something strange flashed across Fuente's face.

"We were not after the king," he replied tersely.

Not after the king? "Toussaine..."

"Indeed. Alas that we could not get to him without harming King Louis."

"Not harm Louis –  _why_?" Athos tried to raise his head, wincing as taut skin pulled over the burned wound, "The king.. of France, at the tip of a musket - why not kill him?"

But Fuente did not answer him. He stood still, hands clasped behind him, disdainful as he regarded Athos from his impressive height. For any other man, it could be intimidating, but Athos barely took notice.

"At least we didn't return empty-handed," Fuente said, continuing as if there had been no interruption, "Toussaine would have been the bigger prize for Spain, but for me... You will do perfectly well,  _Capitan_." Brown eyes narrowed. "You know, of course, what I want from you."

"Enlighten me," Athos challenged with a growl, glaring. Fuente took two steps forward and leaned in.

"I know that your king met with Bernhard von Saxe-Weimar and his two trusted lieutenants in the Chateau de Rambouillet last night. I know that they discussed having German officers train your French corps, and that you,  _Capitan_ , along with General Toussaine, attended that meeting. I want the details of this plan. I want the names of the officers that will be training your corps, and the locations of the camps in which this training will take place. I want to know everything that was discussed, down to the very last detail, because, you see, I already know much, but not enough of what I need, so you are going to fix that for me."

"That is not what's going to happen."

A mild smile twisted Fuente's lips. "No?"

"No."

Nothing to smile about in the word that was thrust up like a bulwark. The smirk faded.

"Yet, you wonder."

He had not missed the involuntary enlarging of Athos's pupils when he'd revealed the extent of his knowledge. "You wonder how I can know all of this. You underestimate the dexterity of our spies operating on French soil."

"Dexterity," Athos repeated, one eyebrow arched in a way that contained a hundred different meanings, "How did you get wind of our route?"

Because he'd be dead before openly acknowledging what Fuente already seemed to know.

"It was an entry test," Fuente replied easily, unexpectedly forthcoming.

"A test?"

"Indeed," he smiled again, "and my newest recruit has performed remarkably well. I am – how is it said in French? - meticulous - in my selections in that regard."

"Do desist your gloating," Athos returned, a cross between boredom and exasperation, "It is quite insufferable."

He'd not expected the vicious backhand that snapped his head to the side, forcing a grunt from him as a ring drew blood on his cheek. When he looked up again, Fuente had a dagger in his hand, the tip pointed towards Athos's torso.

"You will not make this easy, will you?"

He, too, sounded cold now, anger suffusing his face, but Athos spared no more than a brief glance at the new threat.

"How did you escape Toussaine's camp? We left you.. and your friend.. in the camp in Verdun. The prisoner exchange cannot have taken place so soon."

"You forget that it is _I_  who asks the questions this time. And you will find that unlike you and your lieutenant, I am much more traditional in my ways,  _Capitan_. Now,  _stay still_."

Then he was advancing on Athos, dagger raised.

Before Athos had a chance to react, two hands descended on him from behind, making his heart leap to his throat - he'd not even noticed there were men behind him! - he struggled to wrench himself free but it was to no avail. The hands bore down even harder, pressing down with little regard for his hurts; Athos tried to kick out at the looming Fuente but discovered that his legs, too, were bound, strapped to the chair from the ankles. He threw his hands up before his face, making another failed attempt to spring and get away from the blade, but Fuente was on him, an iron grip closing around his wrists and jerking him forward; a second later, the sliced rope fell across Athos's lap.

Surprise lasted barely a heartbeat. Athos threw all his weight into a punch across Fuente's jaw, sending the man sprawling down with a grunt; he leapt from the chair, but the ropes around his ankles broke his forward motion and cut him before he could stand - helplessly he pitched forward, arms instinctively thrown up to catch his balance but it was no use – rough hands grabbed him and yanked him back before he planted himself face-first to the floor. They pushed him down and twisted his arms at the back all the while as Athos fought, trying to get free.

" _Mierda_ ," Fuente swore, spitting blood before wiping his mouth with the back of a hand as he struggled to his feet, " _Restrinjalo!_ " (Restrain him.)

A well-placed punch across the jaw sent Athos reeling.

"Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be!" Fuente warned from the corner of the room, "I want to keep this as civil as possible, but you need to work with me!"

"Work.. with you?" Athos sneered, glaring at the man through a trail of blood from a split brow, "Let us establish something from the start, Fuente - you will never get what you want from me.  _Try_  as you might."

" _Frenchmen_ ," Fuente spat, as if that was the foulest insult a man could possibly hurl at another, "We shall see." He stalked to the cot in the corner and snatched up something, then held it up tauntingly towards Athos.

"I know that your friend - Porthos, is it? – I know he's not privy to the details of the plans. I know he's one of your small group who is favoured by King Louis, but in this matter, he's of no consequence. His fate," he pointed a finger at Athos, "depends entirely on you." He hurled the object at Athos's feet. "I won't insult your intelligence by explaining what that means."

Athos stared at the dark shape on the floor, then raised his eyes back at Fuente, saying nothing.

"Think. I shall visit again soon." He turned and stalked out of the room.

Returning his gaze to the floor, Athos bore it this time with stoicism when the two men hauled him to his feet and shoved him towards a corner. He merely watched with cold eyes as manacles were attached to his wrists, chaining him to the wall. The floor was filthy, damp. The two men wore no weapons, no belts, and certainly no keys dangling from their pockets. One barred window high on the right, one small iron door at the left; a low cot - the purpose of which escaped him if he were to be kept chained at the wall - a weakly burning lantern on the wall, and nothing else.

The crimson on the wall had disappeared, and evening had since claimed the room. The men took the lantern as they left, but it made little difference to Athos. He could still see the object Fuente had thrown carelessly to the ground.

It was a Musketeer pauldron.

 _A mess,_  he thought, almost rueful as he eased out a long, shaky breath, dropping his head back against the wall.

It had been an hour before noon when they'd been ambushed. Hazy glimpses of swaying branches as his flesh was seared somewhere in the forest, but other than that, Athos had no memory of a ride. He could be anywhere within an eight-hour distance from Rambouillet. He had no clue.

He dragged his gaze back towards the pauldron.

It seemed, at least, he wasn't alone in the mess. Although, damned if he knew whether he was relieved or annoyed by that fact.

_Porthos.._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Note:** Apparently, the first accordion was patented only in 1844. A glaring anachronism in Fuente's description, but let's let it slip._


	18. INTERLUDE

Dear readers, I'm sorry to announce that I'll be taking a break from working on BtWD for a while. The story has been with me for so long, it's become increasingly difficult to maintain the necessary enthusiasm; I've felt that the quality has dropped in the last couple of chapters and have decided not to sacrifice the rest by forcing it out. I am not abandoning the story. There are too many scenes I'm very fond of which I have long written and am yet to share, and I'm too invested in its completion. I do, however, need the break.

Thank you very much for your readership, comments, kudos and support so far. I hope to see you for the rest of the story; I don't know when, but it will be. Until then.


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